The bones of Vel Ashen sang softly.
Not in melody, but in thread. Every broken arch and fallen tower hummed with the memory of spells once cast. The wind moved like a ghost through shattered halls, brushing dust across murals too old to name.
Elara walked beside Morgwyn in silence.
It felt wrong to speak.
They passed what remained of a coliseum — its walls melted by old flame, its seats devoured by moss. Half a statue still stood in the center: a masked figure holding two threads in either hand, one silver, one red.
"Who was that?" Elara whispered.
Morgwyn stared up at the weather-worn face.
"Thorne carved that statue," she murmured. "He called it The Choice Between."
Elara stepped closer. "Between what?"
"Obedience… and truth."
They made camp in the old library.
Roots had overrun the shelves, but the ceiling still held. Morgwyn cleared a circle in the dust and placed four bone stones at its edge.
"Warding," she explained. "There are things that wake when remembered."
Fen curled up beside a cracked podium. "As long as none of them are librarians."
Elara laughed softly, then unwrapped the spindle.
It had begun to glow again.
A soft, steady light — not urgent. Inviting.
She held it in her hands, and this time… she reached out.
The thread opened.
But instead of the void, Elara stood in a room of mirrors.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Each one held a version of her — some older, some burned, some crowned, some hollowed.
But in the center of the room stood a man.
Silver-braided hair. Violet eyes. Bare feet.
Elara's breath caught.
"Thorne Elvastra."
He turned slowly, and smiled.
"You've stitched your first line. Not badly done, all things considered."
"You… you're alive," she whispered.
"Define alive," Thorne replied dryly. "My heart beats, but not in the usual direction."
"Are you… here?"
"No. But this is the echo I left behind for you. A tether. The true me wanders… somewhere between now and not-yet."
Elara stepped forward. "Why me?"
Thorne's eyes softened. "Because you remind me of her."
"Morgwyn?"
He nodded. "She was always fire. You're flame, too — but different. Not consuming. Illuminating."
Elara flushed. "She still loves you."
He looked away.
"I know."
"But she chose me."
Thorne smiled again — not bitterly, but with deep, quiet mourning.
"Then guard her well. Her love is a blade. It cuts deeper than any curse."
He turned then, and the mirrors began to shift.
One showed Vel Ashen whole.
Another — its destruction.
A third… a chamber beneath the city, sealed by runes.
"That's where your next thread waits," Thorne said. "Beneath the Spiral Vault."
"What is it?"
"A memory," he replied. "One that the gods tried to bury."
Elara touched the glass. "What happens when I find it?"
Thorne's voice dropped.
"You'll understand why Morgwyn truly left. Why the world still fears her. And what Ilsamar lost when it tried to choose."
Elara stared.
"I thought it was a sleeping god."
"It was. Until it tried to love."
Elara jolted awake, sweat clinging to her spine.
The spindle had dimmed.
Morgwyn sat watching her, concern shadowing her gaze.
"I saw Thorne."
Morgwyn blinked.
"He said I need to find the Spiral Vault."
Something froze in Morgwyn's expression.
Then she stood. "Pack your things."
"Why?"
"Because if he's showing you that place, it means he believes you're ready."
"Am I?"
Morgwyn's voice was a whisper.
"I don't know."
They descended into the belly of Vel Ashen.
Past the Hall of Veils. Past the Hollow Bridge. Past the chamber of weeping bells, where forgotten spells mourned themselves.
Finally… they reached a sealed door of woven stone and bone.
The symbol on it: a spiral pierced by a single thread.
Elara placed her palm on it.
The rune flared.
The door opened.
Inside: The Spiral Vault.
A vast chamber carved into a helix — walls layered with memory runes, glowing faintly. In the center stood a pedestal, and on it:
A book.
Bound in deep black leather. Stitched with thread that shimmered gold and ash.
Morgwyn went still.
"Elara. Don't touch it yet."
"Why?"
"Because I know what that is."
Elara looked at her.
"It's your book, isn't it?"
Morgwyn closed her eyes.
"They called it The Witch's Heart. It was written by Thorne. About me. About the truth of Vel Ashen's fall."
Elara stepped forward.
"Then it's time to read it."
She opened the book.
And the vault spoke.
Words bled into the air — not in ink, but memory. Images shimmered across the walls.
A young Morgwyn.
Standing atop a tower, holding a child wrapped in light.
A war council.
Vel Ashen's rulers arguing.
Thorne's voice narrating.
"They feared her because she could love. Because she saw what the gods wanted — and refused."
A second memory.
Morgwyn and Thorne, hand in hand.
Casting a forbidden spell.
A weaving of fate itself.
To seal Ilsamar — not out of hate, but mercy.
To let it sleep without grief.
"They branded her a monster," Thorne whispered. "But she chose compassion over conquest. And in doing so, she paid the price."
Elara turned the page.
And saw it:
Morgwyn.
Chained.
Alone.
Watching Vel Ashen burn.
Tears blurred Elara's vision.
She looked up at Morgwyn.
"You didn't destroy Vel Ashen."
Morgwyn's eyes gleamed, hollow and wet.
"No," she whispered. "They destroyed themselves trying to stop me from saving it."
Elara closed the book.
And walked forward.
"I see you," she said. "All of you."
Then she pressed her forehead to Morgwyn's.
"And I'm not leaving."
High above, far from the ruins, the Aurelian Dominion's spires shimmered with stormlight.
And in the highest tower, a woman cloaked in silver silk watched the stars shudder.
Master Helene Vaurette turned to her apprentice.
"Send word to the Ring. The Vessel has found the Vault."
"And the Witch?" the apprentice asked.
Helene's eyes burned violet.
"She won't make it out alive."
END OF CHAPTER 17