Coren Veyr fixes me with an intense gaze, as if he had just laid out his terms with the generosity of a benevolent ruler. But this is no offer—it is a demand. I gain nothing from this exchange, save for the vague assurance that my companions will remain unharmed. A poor bargain, yet I have no choice. Silently, I nod.

  A triumphant smile flickers across his face, the look of a man who has just secured victory in a particularly cunning game. Then, he places his hand over mine. Every fiber of my being recoils, screaming at me to sever this contact, but I force myself to remain still. Once more, I find myself at the mercy of a man wielding a weapon against me—though this one is not made of steel.

  “We set out for the Nexari tonight,” he declares with smug certainty, clapping his hands together. “Nyssa, you will accompany us.”

  I blink in surprise. “Why would she?” My gaze shifts to the woman at his side.

  She is a Velsothier—that much is obvious. But she is no warrior, no advisor. She is merely a servant of this household.

  Coren Veyr arches a mocking brow. “Who else would see to my needs?” His eyes linger on Nyssa, cold and dismissive.

  My stomach tightens. He is subjecting her to danger simply because he refuses to part with his usual comforts? What cruel tasks does he force upon this woman? In her eyes, fear burns like a dying ember.

  “Yes, my lord,” she forces out, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling at the edges.

  Coren Veyr either does not notice or does not care. He merely nods in satisfaction. “Very well. Because I am such a generous Elindine, I will grant you a few more hours with your companions. You may tell them what I intend—it will change nothing. After all, I am the leader, and Velsoth bows at my feet.”

  He claps again, and two Velsothier, clad in black armor, step soundlessly into the room. They halt before me—motionless, waiting, like shadows poised for a signal.

  “Take our honored guest to the others,” he orders.

  The guards move at once. Unlike Mirael and Sylas, they do not drag me forward with brute force. Instead, they allow me to walk at my own pace. As I leave the room, my eyes find Nyssa. She stands frozen, as if the very ground beneath her feet has been stripped away.

  Poor woman.

  This time, I do not have to wander through endless corridors. I am led straight to Sylas and Mirael—to those I can confide in, to those who, in their own ways, anchor me.

  Mirael acts different. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Perhaps she does not despise me as much as she once did. Something shifted between us after our encounter with Rasha Vane. I do not yet know what it is, but the thought eases me.

  No matter how much Mirael’s words and actions have angered me before—I do not want a war. Not with her. Not with anyone. I want peace in Elindros. Not just for the land, but for myself. All this hatred, all this suffering... If I have a chance to end it, I will take it. No matter the cost. Even if it means embarking on this journey to the Nexari with Coren Veyr.

  “Vespera!”

  Sylas’ voice rings out, relief breaking across his face as he scans me for injuries. Mirael stands at his side, her eyes studying me with an expression that is neither closed nor welcoming. A compromise between what she wants to be and what she truly feels.

  “By Rhovan Ardelon! I was losing my mind with worry! What did that bastard want from you?”

  The room we are in is more refined than the last—but no less stifling. To my left and straight ahead, large doors lead to other chambers. A bathing room? A sleeping chamber? I do not know. The furniture is deliberately placed: two sofas, one in a soft beige, the other in a deep emerald green. A detail that suprises me. For once, something that is not black.

  To the right, the wall is almost entirely glass—a series of narrow windows that open onto a view opposite of Velsoth. From here, I can see it clearly. We are indeed at the very heart of the city. Coren Veyr had not lied.

  And yet… something feels off.

  While Sylas waits for an answer, my mind drifts beyond these walls, lost in the world outside. My senses warn me before it even happens.

  Then—a chime.

  First in the north. Then the east. The south. And finally, the west.

  The darkness trembles beneath the weight of the bells, their resonance thick and foreboding.

  And then—light.

  Suddenly, the village erupts in a cascade of colors, shattering the murky, suffocating gloom. Lanterns bloom at every corner, strings of lights stretch across narrow alleyways, hidden sources of illumination cast a soft glow upon the walls. Shadows dance upon the cobblestones, as if the village has shed its mask—or perhaps just donned a new one.

  “W-What…?” My voice is barely a whisper as I blink in stunned disbelief.

  Sylas’ expression remains unreadable as he finally speaks. “My father had already told me about Velsoth’s… advancements,” he begins, revealing yet another truth Zyar had entrusted to him. “The Velsothier draw their power from a source connected to the remains of Eris Dain, the Founder.”

  “His… remains?!” A shudder of horror runs through me, and Mirael involuntarily holds her breath.

  “Perhaps I phrased it poorly,” Sylas quickly corrects himself. “I can’t tell you anything with certainty, but supposedly, the Founder’s tomb is linked to a device known only to the Velsothier. I don’t even know its name. What I do know is this—without that power source, Velsoth would be shrouded in eternal darkness. Whether it affects the Veleis, I can’t say. My father was once sent on a mission to this village. He told me many things about it. But how much of it was truth…?” He shrugs. “Perhaps they didn’t trust him. Perhaps they lied.”

  “Is it dangerous?” Mirael steps closer.

  Sylas shakes his head.

  For a moment, none of us speak as our gazes drift to the breathtaking night beyond—a vast, starless abyss that cloaks Velsoth like an impenetrable veil.

  Then, Sylas turns back to me. “Now tell me, Vespera,” he says, softer this time, though no less insistent. There is a flicker of concern in his features. “What did Coren Veyr want from you?”

  “He wants to make me his wife.”

  The words slip from my lips before I can stop them.

  Silence.

  Mirael’s brow furrows in disbelief, while Sylas’ expression twists into something raw—revulsion, fury.

  “He claims that as the leader of Velsoth, he requires a powerful Elindine by his side. And that the vessel of the Sonatius Mortaeda is a convenient choice.”

  “That bastard doesn’t actually believe we’ll fall for this nonsense!” Sylas snaps, his anger directed at the Velsothier rather than at me. His jaw tightens, his fists clenching at his sides. “He is not the ruler of Velsoth! Vespera, what did you say to him?”

  I meet his gaze. “That I am already married,” I confess. “To Lord Louweris.”

  Icy silence follows my words.

  “Then he’ll want to take you to the human world to dissolve the bond.” Sylas’ voice is dark.

  I nod slowly, watching him carefully. “How do you know that?”

  “In Elindros, a woman can only be remarried if her soul is unbound,” Sylas explains, tension lining his voice. “For him to claim you, Elowirn Louweris must annul the marriage willingly or…” His voice roughens. “…pay with his life.”

  I press my lips together.

  “What exactly is it about this that troubles you?” I ask at last. “As for me, I want no part of this bond anymore.”

  “I understand you, Vespera,” Sylas replies quietly, but his gaze remains firm. “But the In-Between is no place for you. What will you do if the Nyrelis Sisters find you? They have already made it clear that they must deliver the vessel of Sonatius Mortaeda to their client. Do you truly believe Coren Veyr will protect you?” A bitter laugh escapes him. “He’ll take the Astralis for himself and leave you behind.”

  He’s right. I know it. And yet…

  And yet I still want to do this.

  Despite the danger. Despite knowing that Coren Veyr will abandon me when the time comes. I want to take the risk.

  Ever since I arrived in Elindros, my thoughts have been haunted by my past in Velarion. By the king who made me believe my father had never loved me. By the lord who sought to claim me as his. Seventeen years I spent in ignorance, in a false sense of security. And now, am I to let this opportunity slip away—to finally uncover the truth?

  I draw in a deep breath.

  “Sylas, I appreciate your concern for me,” I say at last, though my hands tremble, my knees feel weak. “But I have to do this.”

  He tenses. “I made you a promise—”

  “You can’t protect me forever!” I cut him off before he can bring up the blood pact.

  For a moment, there is only silence between us.

  Then I see it—that small, almost imperceptible flicker in his expression, as if something inside him fractures. His shoulders sink. His gaze shifts past me, as though he can no longer bear to look at me.

  Something in his features changes—a collision of helplessness, anger, and pain. His jaw tightens, his fists clench, as if he must restrain himself from striking out at an invisible enemy. And then, as though he finally understands the futility of fighting the inevitable, he exhales, releasing the tension in his body.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “This is madness…” His voice is barely more than a whisper.

  He wants to protest, to stop me. But when he looks into my eyes, he knows—it is useless.

  I have made my choice.

  And the knowledge that this time, he cannot stop me burns in his gaze like unspoken pain.

  The hours pass, and yet I cannot grasp time. In Velsoth, there is no day, no sun to mark its course. It is always night—a heavy, suffocating darkness that stretches time, making it intangible. It feels as if I have been trapped in this silence for an eternity. Sylas and Mirael have not spoken a word to me, and the weight of that silence presses down on me like a lingering ghost.

  For a fleeting moment, I am pulled back into my past, to the days when I lived in a lonely room, cut off from the world. This silence—so familiar, yet so crushing—keeps dragging me back into that cursed life. The urge to say something, anything, threatens to consume me. But then, Sylas steps to my side, breaking the stillness and granting me a moment of release.

  “This blood pact binds me to you until my death,” he says, and though he tries to keep his voice steady, I feel the strain in his words. “How can you expect me to let you face this danger alone?”

  I turn my gaze to Mirael, who watches us in silence. “You are not bound to me alone,” I reply, my voice calm despite the weight of the words. I know how deep the bond between them runs, even if I do not fully understand it. But it is real, and I cannot expect him to put me above her. “Please, focus on keeping her safe. Perhaps...” I hesitate. The next words push past my lips like stones scraping my throat. “Perhaps you should return to Solnya.”

  Sylas’ brows draw together, suspicion darkening his eyes. “Vespera!” he snaps.

  “It was a foolish idea from the start, entering your village,” I whisper, my voice trembling as I bite my lip to hold back tears. “I should have known my presence would only bring ruin. If I had never followed you and your father, perhaps Gisela would still be alive. Perhaps those children I saw buried beneath the rubble would still be here. I... I’ve caused enough destruction. So just let me go.”

  Sylas wants to argue, to resist, to persuade me—but at what cost? How much longer will I let others dictate my path?

  Then, suddenly, the door swings open, and Coren Veyr steps inside. Four Velsothier flank him, their black armor making them appear like living shadows. The man himself clasps his hands behind his back, a self-satisfied smile curling his lips as he looks at me.

  “Well, my dear... shall we?” he asks, his voice carrying more command than question. He knows I have not told Sylas and Mirael the true extent of this decision.

  Before I can answer, Sylas pulls me back abruptly. He steps in front of me, his fury almost tangible.

  “What gives you the right to decide Vespera’s fate?” he hisses, his voice a blade slicing through the air. “She can choose for herself whom she wishes to marry! We appreciate your offer, but we are not interested. We would prefer if you escorted us out of Velsoth so we may continue our journey.”

  Coren Veyr clicks his tongue, his gaze sweeping over Sylas with open disdain. “Is it your lineage that makes you think you can speak to the ruler of Velsoth in such a manner? Yes, your father is the great Legate of the Elements, Zyar Velqorin. But you?” He steps closer. “You cannot even wield all the elements. Here, I rule. Vespera will honor her promise and become my wife.”

  With a snap of his fingers, his men move forward, closing in on us. Sylas throws out his arm in front of me, making his stance clear. He will not surrender me without a fight.

  “Oh? So now we show our true colors?” Sylas’ voice is sharp, his fury no longer hidden. “Do you truly believe I would simply hand Vespera over to you?”

  Coren Veyr’s men shift into combat stances. Mirael stands slightly behind us, and I remain close to Sylas. Then, without warning, flames erupt at the end of his outstretched arm, engulfing his hand in fire. But it is not just fire—I can feel the presence of water too. The same water whip he had wielded against Rasha Vane coils around his other fist.

  But where did he draw the water from? And the fire—how does he summon it here, in this desolate, dark place? He needs a source for his powers!

  “Well, well,” Coren Veyr murmurs, clapping his hands together in mock amusement. “The young Solniw can wield fire now? My shadows must have been rather negligent.”

  “You talk too much,” Sylas snarls. “If you so much as touch Vespera or Mirael, you will have to go through me first.”

  Coren Veyr narrows his eyes. Both men take a step forward, muscles coiling like drawn bowstrings, but before they can clash, something stops them mid-motion. Their bodies freeze as if time itself has stilled. The shadow magic of the Velsothier is indeed formidable. They glance at each other, eyes wide with shock—then, before either can speak, a figure appears in the doorway.

  Rhea Varne.

  The warriors flanking Coren Veyr step aside, allowing her to pass. These giants, fierce and battle-hardened, seem to respect her—or perhaps even fear her. Is it because she is the daughter of the former ruler? Or because she is the true leader of Velsoth?

  Why would Coren Veyr lie, claiming his half-sister was just a child who played at leadership, when in truth, it is she who holds the reins of power—and not him?

  “What is going on here?” Rhea hisses, her voice a blade slicing through the charged air. “Why have my guests been taken to another room without my consent? Big brother, explain yourself.”

  The man who moments ago brimmed with confidence now seems smaller. The air of superiority wavers, and in its place stands a man scrambling to justify himself before a girl. He steps toward Rhea, crouching before her with a practiced smile.

  “My sweet Rhea,” he says, lifting a hand to brush gently against her hairline.

  She pulls away, denying him the touch. “Leader Rhea Varne,” she corrects sharply. “Even if you are my brother, I cannot allow you to treat me as a child before my people.”

  Her gaze shifts to Sylas, who still watches Coren Veyr with burning defiance.

  “Young Lord Velqorin, my brother seems reluctant to provide an answer,” she says. “Perhaps you might enlighten me as to why you are here?”

  “Forgive us for causing such an uproar in your village,” Sylas replies without hesitation. His voice is calm, measured. “Your half-brother, Leader Coren Veyr, wished to move us to this room to provide a more comfortable stay, as one of your soldiers had startled Vespera earlier.”

  He is lying.

  What is he planning?

  “Leader Coren Veyr?” Rhea lifts a brow, her gaze lingering on her brother. There is no anger in her expression, not even disappointment—only exhaustion. She exhales a quiet sigh, shaking her head.

  “Coren, you are my elder brother. We share the same mother. But you must understand—Father chose me as his successor because I bear his bloodline.”

  “I did not—” Coren Veyr lets out a nervous laugh, as if trying to brush her words away like dust from a table.

  Rhea raises a hand, cutting him off. “I know it is difficult for you to see me in this position. A girl, and still a child, while you are a grown man. But Father has made his choice, and I respect his decision. You should do the same.”

  More Velsothier in black armor enter the chamber, their heavy footsteps echoing dully against the stone floor. They are followed by Selric Thorne, the Shadowshield of the Throne. His gaze lingers on me for a brief moment—assessing, contemplative—before he turns to Coren Veyr.

  “Young lord, may I have a word with you?” His voice is calm, almost gentle, yet in his dark eyes lies a depth of sharpness, impenetrable and cold.

  Coren Veyr hesitates only for a moment, then nods and is the first to leave the room.

  “He is to come to my study afterward,” Rhea orders, not sparing her brother even a glance.

  Selric Thorne inclines his head in a short bow and departs. Silence settles in his wake—except for the presence of Rhea Varne, whose gaze now rests upon us.

  Sylas seems slightly more at ease, but his shoulders remain tense, as if the weight of the situation still clings to him.

  “I apologize for my brother’s behavior,” Rhea says at last, her voice steady but not cold. “A few days after my father passed, Advisor Selric Thorne delivered his sealed will to my mother. Coren naturally assumed he would be the rightful heir. You can imagine his fury when he learned that my name was written in his place—while he was not even considered.”

  A sharp pang pierces my heart.

  Darian Varne, the former leader, perhaps never saw Coren Veyr as his son. And if Rhea is only thirteen, that means her parents have been married for at least as long. But Coren? A man of nearly thirty… He must have spent most of his life at the old leader’s side.

  He is more like me than I care to admit.

  I, too, had a younger brother—one my “father” always favored. A brother whose mere existence, whose mere gender, was enough to strip me of my claim to the throne. In the end, it had been futile anyway—for King Mukuta Valdyris had never been my father to begin with.

  I understand Coren Veyr’s frustration all too well.

  “He is still my brother, and I love him dearly,” Rhea says quietly. For the first time, her composed exterior cracks, and for a fleeting moment, I no longer see a leader but a young girl who has had little time to be a child. “But I must honor my father’s will. And Coren must learn that a kingdom does not require a man in power to survive.”

  Her words are wise—far wiser than one would expect from a child so young.

  At last, Rhea gives the order to return us to the chamber from which Coren Veyr’s men had taken us. My pulse is still unsteady, the memory of the near battle burning hot in my veins.

  Would we have stood a chance against those warriors? Perhaps Sylas. But Coren Veyr’s men… They wield the shadows themselves, their movements blending into them, invisible to the naked eye. Even with the Veleis, which allows us to see in Velsoth, those tendrils of darkness would have consumed us.

  Sylas exhales sharply, shaking his head.

  “I can’t believe you nearly entered the Nexari with that fraud,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. Then, he looks up. “How could I have forgiven myself if something had happened to you?”

  I do not answer. There is no point.

  He refuses to see that Mirael’s life should matter more to him than mine.

  He notices my silence but does not press further. From the corner of my eye, I see his gaze flick to Mirael—and his expression hardens. He understands.

  Suddenly, the door unlocks.

  A Velsothier in black armor steps inside. No face is visible, no motion betrays his identity, his intentions—or even his gender. But his voice…

  I recognize it instantly.

  “Leader Rhea Varne requests the presence of Vespera Entium in her study,” the man announces.

  It is the same man who had intimidated me in the cell.

  And now I am to walk these halls alone with him?

  “She asks for your forgiveness for the actions of your half-brother, Coren Veyr,” he continues.

  So she has already heard of Coren’s intentions to claim me as his wife?

  How does she imagine this forgiveness? With mere words? Or with actions?

  But I do not ask these questions. If one of her own has been sent to retrieve me, it can only mean the order came directly from her.

  Sylas must have realized this too, for he makes no move to stop me.

  With a pounding heart, I step forward and follow the Velsothier into the darkness.

  Since my arrival, I have not encountered a single soul in these halls. Are the retainers of House Varne even permitted in this part of the castle?

  The walls are bare here as well—no paintings, no ornaments to grant this place even the faintest warmth. The Velsothier leading me to Rhea Varne walks in silence, and the weight of it presses against my chest, amplifying the unease creeping through me. Can he hear the frantic beat of my heart?

  “How exactly does the leader intend to atone for her half-brother’s actions?”

  He does not answer. Not immediately. A low, derisive snort escapes him. Then, he hisses, “Your kind should be eradicated.”

  For a moment, my heart falters. Panic surges through my veins. There is a coldness in his words that I cannot ignore. Does he mean it? Is he threatening me? Or is it mere disdain?

  “How… do you mean that?”

  “You breed among yourselves and spawn abominations,” he hisses again, his voice dripping with revulsion. “Disgusting.”

  I stop dead in my tracks. My feet refuse to obey me.

  The Velsothier removes his helmet.

  Black hair, bound tightly into a braid. The lower half of his head shaved clean. Dark green eyes pierce into mine, cold and calculating. I swallow hard. With the mask, I had preferred his presence—at least then, I could have imagined a smile beneath it.

  Fear coils around me, rendering me motionless. Instinctively, I take a step back, but I do not get far. His grip tightens as he seizes my arm and drags me down the corridor. We come to a halt before a heavy iron gate.

  He reaches for a key—not part of a ring, but a single, loose piece fastened to his belt.

  Beyond the gate, I see a staircase spiraling downward. A winding descent into darkness. Step by step, we make our way down until we reach another door. Cold seeps into my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.

  Earlier, on the bridge, I felt the icy breath of winter—proof that Velsoth’s weather mirrors that of the outside world.

  The Velsothier tightens his grip.

  Before us, a massive door of solid steel looms, heavy and unyielding. I know doors like this. Once, in the mortal world, I glimpsed the prisons of men. That was the first time I saw a door of this kind.

  But this time, I have no chance to turn back.

  He does not use a key, as he did before. Instead, he knocks in an irregular pattern.

  Seconds pass. Then, the door creaks open just a sliver.

  Nyssa.

  A Velsothier. The half-brother’s servant.

  What is she doing here?

  Her gaze flickers to my captor, then to me. A nod—barely perceptible. Without another word, she opens the door fully, revealing the chamber beyond.

  “My dear Vespera.”

  The voice that greets me turns my blood to ice.

  Impossible.

  Coren Veyr.

  How?

  The Velsothier who led me here—he serves Rhea Varne! Why did he lie?

  “My sweet sister thwarted our last meeting,” Coren muses, a smug smile curling his lips. “But she could not unravel our plan. The journey to the Nexari is imminent.”

  My hand trembles as I lift it, pointing at the Velsothier in black armor. “But… he serves Rhea Varne! Why would he…?”

  Coren chuckles softly.

  “Haldron Krythar has been at my side for years,” he declares with pride. “Like me, he seeks a future for Velsoth. Our people have dwelled in darkness since the dawn of time, cut off from the world. Is it because we are weak? No. Our founder, Eris Dain, was a fool. We Velsothier cannot endure the sun’s light for long—our bodies reject the conditions of the surface. But I have found the solution.”

  He steps closer, his eyes burning with resolve.

  “Like Selric Thorne, I have seen the third moon, high in the sky. And you…” His finger lands on me. “You are the final vessel. The Losniw, the one who will lead Elindros into a new world. A world that I will rule.”