Adrian Valorian's boots pounded the palace's stone floors, his breath a ragged burn in his chest. The ward chamber's chaos lingered—shattered wards, scattered shards of the Heart of Eldoria, and Lord Kael's escape—but Toren Vael's betrayal cut deepest. Toren had stolen the ancient journal, its pages revealing House Valorian's tie to the Heart and House Draven's centuries-old plot to control Eldoria's magic. His ashen face and bloodied blade haunted Adrian, a plea of I didn't want this clashing with his flight into the shadows. Adrian's blood sang with rage and the catacombs' guardian's whisper: Your fight is not done.
Lira Vey ran beside him, her curls loose and damp, her eyes blazing with the same fire that had carried them through the catacombs. Her side was bruised, her sleeve bloodied from the ward chamber fight, but her voice was steel. "Toren's heading for the old wing," she said, dodging a fallen pillar. "If he reaches the Dravens, we lose everything."
Adrian's arm ached, the spell burn now a map of scars, his cloak torn but hiding the Draven ring from Lord Varn. His copper disc was useless, its rune spent, but his mind was a storm of strategy. The journal was their last weapon—proof of the Dravens' true aim and the noble alliance Kael had boasted of. Princess Eryn's pardon hung by a thread, and Professor Elara's grim warning—The court's fracturing—echoed. The vault's parchment had exposed Varn, but without the journal, Kael could still topple King Alaric.
They raced through the palace's underbelly, its corridors dim and heavy with the scent of wax and stone. Elara's guards were securing the ward chamber, but the old wing was a maze of forgotten halls, a perfect hideout for traitors. Adrian's heart pounded, Toren's betrayal a blade in his gut. They have my sister, Toren had said, but his actions screamed duplicity. Was he a pawn or a player? Adrian couldn't afford to care—not now.
"Slow down," Lira hissed, grabbing his sleeve as they neared a rusted gate. "Listen."
Voices echoed, low and urgent, from beyond the gate. Adrian crouched, peering through the bars. Two Draven loyalists stood in a crumbling hall, their cloaks marked with the serpent sigil. "Toren's late," one growled, magic sparking in his hand. "If he's turned again, Kael will have our heads."
Adrian's blood ran cold. Toren was meeting the Dravens here, but the loyalists' fear hinted at a larger plan. Lira's hand tightened on his, her whisper barely audible. "We need to get past them. The journal's our only shot."
He nodded, scanning the gate. Its lock was old, no wards, but the loyalists were alert. His disc was dead, but the Draven ring caught his eye, its sigil a mirror to their cloaks. A gamble was formed. "Follow my lead," he whispered, slipping the ring onto his finger.
Adrian stood, cloaking himself in false confidence, and banged on the gate. "Open it!" he barked, flashing the ring. "Toren sent me. Kael's orders."
The loyalists hesitated, their eyes narrowing, but the ring's sigil held weight. One muttered a curse, unlocking the gate. "Where's Vael?" he demanded, magic flaring.
"Delayed," Adrian said, his voice steady despite the sweat on his brow. "He's got the journal. Move, or Kael hears of this."
The loyalists exchanged a glance, then stepped aside. Adrian and Lira slipped through, hearts pounding, but the second loyalist's hand shot out, grabbing Adrian's arm. "You're not one of us," he snarled, his spell sparking.
Lira moved first, kicking the man's knee, her Academy training sharp. Adrian twisted free, slamming his elbow into the loyalist's jaw. The other raised a spell, but Lira tackled him, her fists relentless. They dragged the unconscious men into a shadowed alcove, binding them with their cloaks. Adrian's chest heaved, pain lancing through his arm. "Close," he muttered, wiping blood from his lip.
"Too close," Lira said, her eyes fierce but worried. "Toren's nearby. We can't keep this up."
They pressed on, the old wing's halls narrowing, their walls etched with faded murals of Eldoria's founders—mages wielding crystals like the Heart. The air grew colder, the catacombs' hum lingering in Adrian's blood, a reminder of the guardian's power. His Valorian heritage wasn't just a name; it was a key to magic the Dravens coveted, and the journal held the proof.
A faint light flickered ahead, a door ajar. Adrian signalled Lira, and they crept closer, peering into a dilapidated library, its shelves sagging with mouldy tomes. Toren stood at a table, the journal open before him, his bloodied blade at his side. A figure cloaked in black faced him—not Kael, but Lady Draven, her eyes venomous, her voice a low hiss. "You've failed us, Vael. The Heart's broken, and Kael's exposed. This journal is all you're worth now."
Toren's face was pale, his voice shaking. "I got you the book. Let my sister go."
Lady Draven's laugh was ice. "You're a tool, nothing more. The nobles' pact holds, with or without Kael. This journal ensures it."
Adrian's stomach churned. The nobles' pact—a conspiracy beyond the Dravens, tying Varn, Kael, and others to a plot to reshape Eldoria. He whispered to Lira, "We need that journal. Now."
Lira nodded, spotting a balcony above the library. They climbed a rotting staircase, its creaks masked by Lady Draven's voice, and crouched on the balcony, overlooking the scene. Toren's desperation was raw, but his betrayal burned in Adrian's chest. He scanned the room, spotting a chandelier, its chains rusted but heavy. A plan sparked.
"Lira," he whispered, pointing to the chandelier. "Cut the chain. I'll grab the journal."
Her eyes widened, but she trusted him, slipping toward the chain with a stolen dagger from the loyalists. Adrian readied himself, his body screaming, but his resolve iron. Lady Draven's words grew sharper, her hand sparking with magic. "The Valorian boy's blood is the key," she said. "With this journal, we'll find another way to bind the magic."
Adrian's blood ran cold. His heritage was their obsession, and the journal was their map. Lira's dagger bit into the chain, a faint scrape, and the chandelier swayed. Toren's eyes flicked up, meeting Adrian's for a split second—guilt, fear, or something else? No time to guess.
"Now!" Adrian hissed. Lira severed the chain, and the chandelier crashed, scattering Lady Draven and Toren. Adrian leapt from the balcony, landing hard, pain shooting through his legs. He dove for the journal, snatching it as Lady Draven's spell grazed his shoulder, searing flesh. "Lira, run!" he yelled, clutching the book.
Lira dropped beside him, dodging another spell, and they bolted for a side door. Toren scrambled to his feet, his blade raised, but he didn't strike, his eyes locked on Adrian with a mix of shame and resolve. Lady Draven's scream echoed, her magic flaring, but the library's walls trembled, the catacombs' guardian stirring again, its hum a warning.
They fled through the old wing, the journal heavy in Adrian's hands, its brittle pages a lifeline. The halls twisted, the air growing colder, the guardian's presence a shadow at their heels. Lira's breath was ragged, her hand brushing his in a silent vow. "We need Elara," she gasped. "She'll know what this means."
Adrian nodded, his mind racing. Eryn's guards were allies, but the noble pact meant betrayal could come from anywhere. They reached a servants' passage, its narrow confines a temporary shield, and paused to catch their breath. Adrian opened the journal, its script dense but clear: The Heart was forged by Valorians, its power sealed by blood. Nobles betrayed them, fearing their strength, and hid the truth in these pages.
His throat tightened. His family's fall was no accident; it was a purge to bury their power. The noble pact wasn't just about the throne—it was about controlling magic itself. "Kael's not the head," Adrian said, voice raw. "Someone's above him."
Lira's eyes widened. "Lady Draven?"
"Maybe," Adrian said, but doubt gnawed him. The pact was too vast, its threads too deep. He flipped a page, finding a list—names, dates, noble houses. Varn was there, but so were others, some still in Alaric's court. His heart sank. The conspiracy was a hydra, and they'd only cut one head.
Footsteps echoed, sharp and deliberate. Adrian slammed the journal shut, pulling Lira behind a crate. A figure emerged—not a loyalist, but a palace guard, his armour gleaming, his voice familiar. "Corveth," he called, "Eryn sent me. You're needed."
Adrian hesitated, the guard's face hidden by his helm. Eryn's trust was fragile, and the noble pact meant no one was safe. "Show yourself," Adrian said, gripping the journal.
The guard removed his helm, revealing a face Adrian knew—Cassian Draven, Lady Draven's son, his Academy rival. Cassian's smile was cold, his hand sparking with magic. "You're predictable, Valorian," he said. "Mother wants that journal. Hand it over, or Lira dies."
Lira tensed, her dagger ready, but Cassian's spell was faster, a net of light pinning her to the wall. Adrian lunged, but Cassian's boot caught his chest, sending him sprawling. The journal skidded across the floor, and Cassian grabbed it, his eyes gleaming. "The pact's bigger than you," he said. "Even Eryn can't stop it."
Adrian's vision blurred, pain and rage warring. He scrambled to his feet, tackling Cassian, his fists desperate. Lira broke free, her dagger slashing Cassian's arm, but he hurled a spell, knocking her back. The journal fell, and Adrian dove for it, his fingers closing around its edges as Cassian's magic flared again.
Then the walls shook, a roar like the catacombs' guardian, but sharper, alive. A figure emerged from the shadows—not Toren, not Kael, but a woman in a silver cloak, her face obscured, her voice a command. "Enough, Cassian. The boy lives—for now."
Cassian froze, his spell fading, his eyes wide with fear. The woman's presence was a storm, her magic a weight that crushed the air. She snatched the journal, her gaze piercing Adrian's. "Valorian blood," she said, her voice a whisper of power. "You'll serve, or you'll break."
She vanished, a pulse of magic blinding them, and Cassian fled, leaving Adrian and Lira gasping. The journal was gone, and the woman's words echoed: The pact's bigger than you. Adrian's blood ran cold. The noble pact wasn't just nobles—it was something ancient, tied to the guardian, to his blood, to Eldoria itself.
Lira grabbed his hand, her voice urgent. "We need Eryn. Now."
Adrian nodded, his resolve a flickering flame. The palace was a battlefield, and the woman in silver was a new enemy, her power beyond Kael's. The journal's loss was a blow, but its secrets were burned into his mind. The Dravens, the pact, the guardian—they thought they'd won, but he was their reckoning. As they ran, the catacombs' hum surged, and a new shadow stirred—a presence not guardian, but human, watching from the dark. Adrian's heart stopped. Someone else was here, and they held the key to everything.