"The binding spell was never a curse," Eli whispered, revelation washing over him like ice water. "It was a safeguard—all this time."

  Eli's footsteps echoed softly as he followed Aura deeper into the grotto. The passage sloped downward, the air growing cooler and carrying a faint metallic tang. Crystals jutted from the walls, their light dim and irregular, casting shadows that shifted with every step. The silence was absolute—no whisper of wind, no distant hum of corruption—only the soft rustle of Aura's wings and the slow, steady pulse of the binding spell at his neck.

  Starling's dark core was a cold weight in his hand, the faint vibration he had sensed before still there—slow and searching, almost like a heartbeat. The binding spell was warm, not painful but steadying, the silver threads pulsing faintly as if to reassure him.

  Aura glanced back, her eyes bright and wary. Waves of emotion radiated from her—guilt, urgency, a muted hope that felt almost fragile. Eli's grip tightened on Starling, his jaw clenched against the rising tide of questions in his mind.

  "You knew," Eli said, his voice hushed but accusing, eyes fixed on Aura's back. The tiny winged girl flinched, her light flickering with guilt and sorrow. She didn't turn to face him, but he could feel the flood of emotions—apology, regret, and a desperate, wordless plea to keep moving.

  He tried to focus on the path instead—the smoothness of the walls, the faint glow of glyphs etched into the crystal, the way time seemed to stretch and blur the further they went. His steps felt slow, almost dreamlike, and he couldn't tell if minutes or hours were passing.

  His eyes drifted to the walls, tracing the faded Aethel glyphs etched into the crystal. As they passed, the silver threads in the binding spell pulsed faintly—not in pain, but in recognition, a soft glow that spread warmth through his chest.

  "How do I understand you?" Eli asked suddenly, the question rising unbidden to his lips. "You don't speak, but I... I feel what you mean." He gestured to his temple. "It's like your thoughts are translating directly into my mind."

  Aura paused, hovering in the air as her wings beat slowly. A complex swirl of emotions washed over Eli—curiosity, surprise, and something like approval. She gestured to the binding spell at his neck, then to her own throat where similar glyphs shimmered faintly beneath her luminous skin.

  "The binding spell?" Eli's fingers rose to touch the silver threads at his neck. "It... translates? It's not just a restraint, it's a conduit?"

  A wave of affirmation flowed from Aura, followed by something deeper—a sense of ancient purpose, of connections woven between minds and hearts long ago.

  Eli exhaled slowly, trying to steady the rapid beat of his heart. The revelation of his lineage, of the binding spell's true purpose, gnawed at him like a splinter beneath his skin. The spell wasn't a curse, not an enemy meant to suppress him, but a safeguard designed to protect the world—from him.

  Aura's light flared softly as the passage opened into a vast chamber, and Eli's breath caught.

  The Hall of Memories stretched before him—an immense space lined with what appeared to be mirrors, each one set within an arch of intricately carved stone. The mirrors' surfaces were dark and still, but glyphs glimmered faintly around their edges—ancient symbols woven into the stone like threads of silver and gold.

  Eli stepped forward cautiously, boots whispering against the polished floor. The air was colder here, carrying a faint scent of ozone, like the charged air before a storm. Aura hesitated at the entrance, her wings fluttering nervously, and Eli felt a wave of guilt and sorrow roll off her—an unspoken apology for what he was about to see.

  "What is this place?" Eli whispered, eyes darting from mirror to mirror, each one dark and silent except for the faint pulse of glyphs.

  Aura's light dimmed, her eyes lowering. She hesitated, then drifted forward, her wings trailing motes of light. A pulse of urgency radiated from her—part plea, part command. Follow.

  Eli's fingers tightened around Starling, the dark core giving a faint pulse in response—slow, steady, and searching. The binding spell at his neck was warm, the silver threads pulsing faintly, not restraining but encouraging, as if the spell itself wanted him to see.

  He took a hesitant step forward, then another, following Aura deeper into the hall.

  The Hall of Memories was vast, echoing, and empty.

  Most of the mirrors were dark, their surfaces smooth and reflective but lifeless, as if they were waiting. Ancient glyphs framed each portal, threads of light weaving through them, but the glow was faint and irregular, like a heartbeat slowed to near stillness.

  As he passed each mirror, Eli caught glimpses—shadows moving in the glass, fragments of memories or perhaps warnings. Some scenes were static, frozen in moments of golden light, while others moved in slow, dreamlike loops, figures gliding through corridors of ivory stone.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "This is why you brought me here," Eli said, understanding dawning. "To show me the truth—about the binding spell, about what I am."

  Aura guided him unerringly through the maze of darkened mirrors, her light dim but steady. She paused before one portal, her wings fluttering anxiously, eyes fixed on the glass. Unlike the others, this mirror was active—its surface rippling with faint light, images shifting and blurring as if viewed through deep water.

  Eli hesitated, glancing at Aura. Her light pulsed softly, radiating a mix of guilt and urgency—like a warning and a plea entwined.

  "There's something here," Eli murmured, his eyes narrowing. He reached out slowly, fingertips brushing the glyphs carved into the stone frame. The symbols glowed at his touch, light flaring in pale gold and violet threads that wove through the runes.

  The binding spell pulsed warmly at his neck, the silver threads brightening as if in recognition. Not painful, but almost… welcoming.

  "When I see these visions," Eli asked, hesitating, "how am I understanding the speech? The Aethel language should be foreign to me."

  Aura's response came as a complex tapestry of emotions and images—the binding spell acting not just as restraint but as translator, a bridge across time and understanding. The visions themselves carried meaning directly to the mind, bypassing the need for spoken language.

  Eli's hand fell away from the glyphs, and he swallowed, eyes flicking to Aura. "What am I supposed to see?"

  Aura's light flared briefly, her eyes meeting his—guilt, regret, hope. Then she drifted back, wings fluttering softly, and a wave of urgency washed over him—an unspoken command.

  Go.

  Eli's jaw clenched. He hesitated a heartbeat longer, then drew a deep breath and stepped forward.

  The world tilted.

  For a moment, Eli was falling—light and darkness spinning, the hall's cold air replaced by warmth and wind. His boots touched solid ground, and he stumbled, catching himself with Starling.

  When he looked up, his breath caught.

  He was standing in a city bathed in golden light. Towers of ivory and crystal stretched into a sky of molten gold, banners of violet and silver streaming from their peaks. The air was warm, carrying the scent of unfamiliar flowers and a soft, musical hum that seemed to resonate through the streets themselves.

  Aethel figures moved with purpose, weaving threads of gold and violet between their fingers, binding them into intricate patterns that hung in the air like spider silk. The streets were lined with glyphs that glimmered faintly, power woven into the very stones.

  Eli stared, breath shallow, heart pounding. "This… this isn't a memory," he whispered. "This is…"

  A wave of emotion crashed over him—Aura's guilt, sorrow, and a faint, desperate hope. The world felt too solid, too real to be an illusion. Not just a memory. Something more.

  The vision shifted, fracturing like light through crystal.

  A city of light—shattered.

  The vision struck with the force of a storm. Eli staggered, light and darkness tangling in his mind. He saw the Aethel city at its peak, corridors of ivory and crystal, banners of violet and gold streaming in a warm wind. And then—corruption seeping in, dark veins crawling through the walls despite golden barriers.

  At the heart of the vision stood a figure, shrouded in light, a collar of runes identical to Eli's binding spell glinting at their neck. Their eyes were stern but sorrowful.

  A voice echoed, weary but resolute: "Restraint is mercy. Without it, all burns."

  "How are their words reaching me?" Eli asked aloud, though he knew Aura couldn't answer directly. "I shouldn't understand their language."

  The silver threads of the binding spell pulsed warmly in response, and understanding bloomed in his mind—the binding spell itself was translating, a bridge across time and language, allowing the memories to speak directly to his heart and mind.

  The figure raised a hand, placing it against a crystal identical to Starling's core, golden and violet threads weaving into it, sealing darkness within a flawless surface.

  "Welcome to the Hall of Memories."

  The voice was warm and steady, carrying the weight of ages. Eli spun, eyes widening.

  An Aethel mage stood a few paces away, robes of violet and gold edged in silver, a staff of ivory gripped loosely in one hand. The mage's eyes were pale and old, glimmering with golden light, and a band of glyphs circled their throat—familiar runes, identical to those on Eli's binding spell.

  The mage's gaze was calm but tired, a faint smile ghosting their lips. "This place is a sanctuary," they continued, voice soft. "A place to remember, to learn, and to understand."

  Eli swallowed, his grip on Starling white-knuckled. "This is… real?"

  The mage's eyes darkened with something like pity. "It is and it is not," they said gently. "A fragment, preserved to teach those who would inherit what was lost."

  "How can I understand you?" Eli asked, words tumbling out. "Your language should be foreign to me."

  The mage smiled, eyes drifting to the binding spell at Eli's neck. "The binding weaves more than restraint," they replied. "It is a bridge—between minds, between times, between languages. What matters is not the words spoken, but the meaning conveyed."

  Eli's hand rose to touch the silver threads, feeling their warmth pulse against his fingertips. "It's not just a curse, then," he whispered. "It's a tool."

  "A safeguard," the mage corrected gently. "A mercy, when all else would burn."

  Training Grounds of the Aethel:

  The mage led Eli through the city, streets stretching into courtyards and halls lined with pillars of crystal. Aethel figures sparred in open arenas, threads of gold and violet weaving through the air in graceful arcs.

  Eli watched, stunned, as warriors moved with lethal precision, blades glinting with woven energy. Others knelt in meditation circles, glyphs spinning around them in soft light.

  The mage explained in soft tones: "Power without control is a fire that consumes. The Hall of Memories is not just to remember, but to teach. Techniques of battle. Of meditation. Of control."

  Eli's eyes narrowed as he watched an Aethel weave threads of light into patterns he recognized—the same sequences he had discovered by instinct in the corruption-filled tunnels.

  "I've been using these techniques," he realized aloud. "But how? I never learned them."

  The mage's eyes held a knowing sadness. "Some knowledge runs deeper than memory," they answered simply. "Some truths are carried in blood."