Memory Lane
Strange, is it not?
Relief, unbidden yet undeniable, settles within
me—but beneath it coils guilt, winding tight as a serpent poised to strike.
The sentient potato—an absurdity, yet somehow
fitting—has confirmed my greatest fear: I cannot read their fate. And yet, why
does relief linger, however faint? A contradiction, fragile as spun glass,
balanced between solace and unease.
The weight that pressed upon me, the oppressive
shadow of the fallen monarch, has receded. His presence, once a vice upon my
thoughts, now feels distant—a specter fading at the edges of perception. And
Ember—no longer merely a demon girl but something more—has proven my suspicions
true. Arthur, in his arrogance, sought to twist the threads of fate, to weave
his own resurrection into the tapestry of the world. A marionette pulling at
his own strings, trying to rise from death’s embrace.
But fate is fickle.
Grant, relentless as ever, shattered Arthur’s
hold, wrenching control from his spectral grasp. A victory, earned in blood and
defiance—yet it does not settle right. It lingers, hollow, discordant, as
though a note in his triumph’s melody rings false.
My gaze drifts to the timers—those ghostly
etchings upon Ember and Sir Spudsworth, cruel markers of borrowed time. They do
not tick. Suspended. Frozen. As though time itself hesitates, caught in some
unseen snare.
A shiver whispers along my spine. The thought
unfurls, dark and insidious: Queen Isabella.
Her magic lingers—thin as mist, sharp as thorns.
Unseen fingers still twist the loom of fate. Though her form has vanished, her
influence remains, woven into the very fabric of this realm. A presence unseen,
yet unshakable. A shadow that refuses to fade.
A discordant thought, sharp as fractured glass,
slices through the stillness of my mind. The Blood Raiders. Their presence
lingers here like a stain that refuses to fade, a whisper of violence woven
into the air itself. The question rises, unbidden—did Mother falter? A flicker
of doubt, brief as a shadow against the sun, chills my spine.
No.
Reason, cold and unwavering, quells the notion
before it can take root. If there was one certainty in this world, it was my
mother’s resolve. She wielded duty like a blade, precise and unyielding. To
falter was beyond her.
The silence thickens, pressing in, suffocating.
An urge wells up—to break it, to hear something, anything, that might tether me
to the present. I clear my throat, the sound barely more than a ripple against
the still air.
“Ember… I mean, Princess Ember,” I begin, my
words measured, each one weighed before it leaves my lips.
She snorts, a sharp sound that dispels the
formality with ease. “Oh, cut the princess crap,” she says, voice edged with
rebellion—frustrated, weary, yet unmistakably hers.
Mr. Spuds, ever dutiful, offers a murmured
protest. “Mi’Lady—”
“Shut it, Spuds,” Ember interrupts, deadpan.
A quiet chuckle slips past my lips, unbidden,
ephemeral—a brief reprieve from the storm of my thoughts. “Right… Ember,” I
correct, inclining my head slightly. “You mentioned… The Broker, was it? He’s
Soul-Bound?”
Her expression shifts, something guarded slipping
away beneath reluctant understanding. “Yeah.” A pause. “He kept telling my dad
they were alike. Soul-Bound.”
A sigh escapes me, quieter than I expect, yet
heavy with confirmation.
So it is true.
The fear that had lurked in the recesses of my
mind takes shape, cold and immutable. The ruins, the creeping shadows, the
unease thrumming beneath my skin—none of these are the true threat. Another
Soul-Bound walks these lands, a being of vast and terrible power.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“But why?”
"How the hell should I know?" Ember
snaps, her frustration raw and unrestrained. It mirrors the turmoil inside me,
a reflection of the chaos that churns beneath my composed exterior.
I start, pulled back into the present as though
the thread of my thoughts has been severed by her sharp words.
"Apologies," I murmur, my voice soft, edged with regret. "Did I
speak aloud?"
"Yeah, well..." Ember answers, meeting
my gaze. For a moment, an understanding flickers between us, unspoken but
clear. "I get it. I’ve got the same questions, twisting in circles inside
my head."
"If only..." My words trail off,
hanging in the air like a forgotten thought. "If only there were a way to
stitch together the broken pieces of this puzzle."
A quiet voice interrupts—smooth, yet carrying an
unmistakable authority. "If I may..." Mr. Spuds offers, his eyes
flicking between us, waiting for permission.
I nod, a silent invitation. Ember gives a brief
shrug in agreement, her expression unreadable.
"If you would be so kind as to follow
me..." Mr. Spuds suggests, his words gentle but firm.
We fall in step behind him, moving deeper into
the sanctum. The air grows thicker with each step, pulsing with a strange,
almost palpable energy, as though the walls themselves are alive with ancient
power. In the center of the chamber, a series of large portraits hangs on the
walls, their frames dark and imposing. But these are no ordinary paintings. The
figures within shift—blinking, moving, watching us with eyes that seem far too
alive.
"What... is this?" I whisper, awe
slipping into my voice despite myself.
"According to Shaq... the late Lady
Shaq'Rai," Mr. Spuds responds, his tone weighted with sorrow, "these
are Mi'Lord's memories. I believe it is the Scion's Inheritance... a reel of
his life, if you will."
Ember’s eyes widen, a spark of something like
electricity flashing within them. "Spuds… did you say late? What do you
mean, late? Where’s Elder Sister?"
Mr. Spuds falters, his usual composure cracking
under the weight of her question. "I... I’m sorry, Mi'Lady, but I’m afraid
she is..."
"Don’t you dare say it, Spudsy!" Ember
cuts him off, her voice low but fierce, the quiet intensity of her words filled
with a burning defiance.
"I agree," I say firmly, my tone
resolute, as if my words can offer solace. "If she’s like you, and you
call her sister, then she is not gone... merely lost, drifting somewhere in the
currents of fate."
"What do you mean, lost?" Ember
presses, her voice tight with urgency. "And how can you be so sure?"
I draw a slow breath, careful in my response.
"When we first met, you called me 'Sister.' Given the distance between you
and the sibling you're searching for, I can only... assume."
My words falter, interrupted by a voice—rich,
familiar, echoing in my memory like an old melody. Instinctively, my gaze
drifts toward one of the living portraits before me, its figure shifting.
"Nathon... Are you certain of this? Using
the gates in such a way?"
"Grandfather?" I murmur, my breath
catching in my throat. The word feels too distant, too unreal, slipping from my
lips like a shadow.
Beneath the portrait's frame, the text reads:
[Jonathan
of Calloway, Son of Duchess Camille of Calloway, daughter of Duchess Isabella
of Calloway, third daughter of King Levon of Grantdale]
In the painting, Ask'Stof—a faded yet ethereal
figure—converses with a man whose features are unsettlingly familiar. He is
aged, worn by time, but undeniably the same figure I encountered in the ruins.
In his arms, he cradles a child wrapped in soft, radiant cloth.
My fingers twitch, drawn to the image. I reach
out, grazing the painted surface, and in that instant, the moment shifts. Time
bends. Ember, Mr. Spuds, and I become specters in the memory, caught within its
currents.
"Come now, Ask'Stof," Jonathan of
Calloway’s voice breaks through the silence—smooth, calm, but with an
undercurrent of mischief. "Weren’t the gates meant for this purpose?"
Ask'Stof frowns, his expression heavy with
concern. "Aye, but not like this. They were meant for your journey
alone."
"I know, I know..." Jonathan answers, a
playful defiance in his tone. "But I promised my grandson a camping
trip."
"Please, Nathon," Ask'Stof insists,
frustration coloring his words. "The boy is but an infant."
Another voice enters, smooth and melodic, like a
soft breeze on a summer evening. "I agree, Jonathan. This is taboo. There
may be consequences we cannot predict."
Ember nudges me, her voice a hushed gasp.
"Whoa... that's you."
Mr. Spuds, always the observer, corrects her with
his usual precision. "Actually, Mi'Lady, while the woman does resemble the
maiden Elara, she is human, not elven."
A warmth rises in my chest, unbidden, as tears
spring to my eyes. They glide down my cheeks, tracing silent paths.
"Mother?" I whisper, the name trembling like a fragile prayer on the
air, full of yearning.