Elara dreamed of fire.
Not the chaotic blaze that had engulfed the tower, but an older flame—controlled, deliberate. She stood within a circle of runes, the sigils burning around her in a perfect ring of light. In her hands was the sliver of Argent Essence, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Across from her stood the stranger.
"You saw it, didn't you?" he asked.
Elara tried to answer, but her voice wouldn't come. The flames rose higher, and his shape became blurry. His eyes—those impossible eyes—held hers.
"You'll remember when you're ready."
She woke with a gasp.
The ceiling above her wasn't the alchemy guild's arched stone vault. It was wood—old and cracked. Her muscles ached, and her left arm throbbed like it had been bruised to the bone.
"Easy." A hand pressed her shoulder. "You've been unconscious for nearly a day."
She turned her head. Tovan sat beside her on a stool, his leg bandaged and elevated.
"Where are we?" she croaked.
"The apothecary's undercroft. Eastward, near the river district. The guild was evacuated after the explosion. You were out cold, and I wasn't going to let them leave you behind."
She sat up slowly. The sliver of Argent Essence was still in her pocket. She felt it thrum faintly against her thigh. Her fingers itched to examine it, but the memory of the stranger's touch flared in her mind.
"Tovan... the man in the black helm—did you see where he went?"
Tovan looked wary. "No. I was unconscious. But others saw him vanish. Some say he turned to smoke. Others swear he flew. The city's been whispering about him all night. They're calling him the Ashborn."
"Ashborn," she repeated. The word curled strangely in her mouth, as though it belonged to a language older than speech.
He hesitated. "They're also saying he came for something. Or someone."
She looked at him sharply. "You think he was looking for me?"
"I think he stopped in the middle of destroying the guild to touch your forehead and then vanished. That's not nothing."
Elara swung her legs over the edge of the cot. "I need to speak to someone. The Queen. Or the Archmages."
Tovan barked a bitter laugh. "The palace has sealed its gates. After the attack, they recalled every Arcanist into the inner sanctum. The High Mages are in hiding, and the Queen hasn't made a public statement since."
"Cowards," she hissed.
"Survivors," Tovan corrected. "But you're not wrong."
Elara stood, swaying slightly. "Then I'll go to the Aether Archives."
Tovan's eyes widened. "That's off-limits to everyone except sanctioned scholars and guildmasters."
She grinned, despite herself. "Good thing I know a few secrets."
***
The Aether Archives weren't just a library. They were a fortress of knowledge—built beneath the oldest part of Aetherhaven, beneath the roots of the First Tree, whose golden leaves still crowned the city's crest. To the public, it was a sealed and silent relic, guarded by sentient statues and riddled with protective glyphs.
But to someone like Elara—someone who had spent years apprenticing under a forgetful cartographer who'd drunkenly mumbled security codes in his sleep—it was accessible. Barely.
The entrance she used was hidden behind a crumbling mural in the catacombs below the East Bridge.
She pressed her palm to the stone, whispered the phrase.
"Blood remembers."
The wall hissed, shimmered, then dissolved into mist.
Beyond lay a tunnel lit by dim azure orbs. Cold. Silent.
She walked for what felt like hours before the tunnel opened into a vast, circular chamber. Bookshelves reached toward a ceiling hidden in shadow. Ghostflame sconces flickered across carved pillars. Floating tomes moved like lazy fish through the air.
And at the center stood a dais with a single pedestal.
Upon it, a book waited.
Elara approached, hesitant. As she drew closer, she saw it wasn't just any book—it was wrapped in silver cords, its cover made of midnight-colored leather that shimmered with constellations.
Her fingers tingled as she reached out.
The book opened on its own.
Words scrawled themselves across the page in real time, glowing softly.
> "To Elara Voss, daughter of flame and ruin.
>
> You were never meant to forget."
Her blood ran cold.
She flipped to the next page.
A diagram filled the parchment—an alchemical circle, not unlike the one from her dream. But older. More intricate. Around its edges were names written in languages she didn't recognize. And at the very center was a symbol: two interlocking triangles surrounded by fire.
The Sigil of Equinox.
She'd only ever seen it once—on a shattered fresco in the ruins north of the Scorched Expanse. A symbol so ancient, even the Arcanists argued over its meaning.
"You're reading a cursed book," said a voice behind her.
She spun around.
He stood there again—the Ashborn. No helm this time. Just his face—young, angular, marked by runes that glowed dimly beneath the skin.
"How did you find me?" she whispered.
"I never lost you."
Her instincts screamed at her to run, but her feet refused.
"You know who I am."
"I do," he said. "More than you know. And I know what you carry."
He motioned to her pocket.
She drew out the Argent Essence, holding it protectively.
"I created this," she said. "From scraps. From theory. You think you can just take it?"
"I don't want to take it," he said softly. "I want to help you understand what it means."
Elara narrowed her eyes. "Then talk."
He stepped forward, his voice low.
"Argent Essence doesn't exist in this realm naturally. It's a bridge. Between what is and what was lost. You didn't create it—you rediscovered it. You're remembering who you were."
Elara's breath caught. "Who I *was*?"
The Ashborn held her gaze. "This world isn't the first. Or the second. This is the ninth shaping. And in the seventh, you were a Keeper."
Her knees nearly gave out.
"No," she said. "You're lying."
"I wish I was," he said. "Because it means the cycle has begun again. The signs are clear. Fire in the North. Silence from the Deep. And now... you."
She swallowed, hard. "What do you want from me?"
"To prepare you," he said. "So when the breaking comes, you'll be ready."
He reached into his cloak and withdrew a small, smooth stone—a shard of black crystal that seemed to drink the light.
He placed it on the pedestal.
"You'll need this when the gates open."
"What gates?"
But he was already fading, like smoke curling from a dying fire.
His final words echoed in the chamber.
> "Find the mirror.
>
> Remember the vow."
***
Elara emerged from the Archives into night.
Tovan was waiting near the mural, pacing. His face lit up when he saw her.
"Well? Did you find anything?"
"Yes," she said. "Too much."
She showed him the shard.
His brow furrowed. "What is that?"
"Something dangerous. Or sacred. I'm not sure yet."
"Do you want to hide it?"
She shook her head. "I want to use it."
Tovan's mouth opened, then closed.
"Elara... are you sure you're okay? You've been acting different since the explosion. Since *him*."
She paused. "I think I was always different. I just didn't know it."
He didn't reply, and she didn't blame him. The air around her felt charged, as if reality was stretching thin. She could feel it now—the subtle pulse of old magic beneath her skin. Not borrowed. Not learned.
Inherited.
She looked out toward the city skyline, where distant fires still smoldered and the palace glinted like a distant star.
She would go there.
She would find the mirror, the vow, and the truth of who she'd been—because if what the Ashborn said was real, then she wasn't just an alchemist.
She was a Keeper of a forgotten world.
And something terrible was coming to burn this one down.