The sanctuary had become her refuge.
For three days, Liora remained tucked away beneath Armath Hollow, letting the stone walls and soft flicker of soulflame calm her. The letters from her parents remained unread, stacked on the bone-etched desk as if she needed permission to open them. She didn't. But something inside her wasn't ready to tear into the past just yet.
Instead, she worked.
There were relics in the sanctuary—things her father had kept hidden from even the White Circle. Sigils carved into cracked bone, feathered wands etched with bloodline runes, and small, delicate vials filled with glowing blue essence. Each item hummed with recognition when she touched it. As though her very blood sang to them.
Today, though, she focused on the Memory Tether.
She had only used it once—and the emotional weight of hearing her mother's voice had shattered her composure. But now, she craved control. Understanding. The spell wasn't like anything she'd learned before. It wasn't a summoning. It was communion.
The ritual was simple: a drop of blood, a name spoken with intention, and a thread of spiritual resonance.
She sat in the center of the sanctuary, candles arranged in a wide circle. The soulfire basin pulsed beside her, casting soft shadows that danced across her skin. She took a deep breath, cut the tip of her finger, and whispered, "Thalen Ravyn."
Her grandfather.
A man spoken of in hushed tones in the Circle. A necromancer said to have vanished during the Great Severance. The last Veil-Tier practitioner before the magic went dormant.
The air grew heavy.
A sudden pressure closed in around her, not threatening, but dense. Like a truth pressing against her chest.
The flame flickered.
Then—he was there.
Not a figure. Not a ghost. Just a presence. A voice etched across the silence.
"Liora."
His voice was deep. Calm. Measured like someone who'd seen too much.
She swallowed. "I need to understand what I am."
"You are the sum of every sacrifice. Every mistake. Every hope we left behind."
Cryptic, but not cold.
"You were never meant to be a weapon. But the world shapes what it fears."
Her jaw clenched. "Then tell me what I'm becoming."
Silence.
Then: "You are standing at the edge of what we once called the Second Veil. Few ever crossed it. None returned the same."
The flame snapped out.
The voice vanished.
Liora opened her eyes, breath shallow. Her head throbbed. Not from magic, but from understanding. The Second Veil wasn't just a metaphor. It was a threshold. A test of spirit and soul.
She would need to cross it to face the White Circle.
And possibly… herself.
Later, she bathed in the small spring behind the sanctuary. The water shimmered unnaturally—infused with dormant enchantments. It healed minor cuts, soothed burns, and made her skin feel weightless.
As she submerged herself, her thoughts wandered to Thane's words.
He loved you.
She wasn't sure what to do with that. Love had always felt like a weapon in her life—used to control, to manipulate, or to abandon. But if her parents had loved her… if they'd truly tried…
Why had she been left behind?
She stared up at the stone ceiling. The steam curled around her neck. The pain in her chest wasn't magical. It was old. Human. The kind of ache that came from growing up too fast.
When she emerged from the water, she dressed slowly. Not in her battle leathers, but in something older. A dark robe sewn with feather motifs—a ceremonial garb left behind by her father.
It fit her too well.
By nightfall, she stood outside the sanctuary with a decision made.
The next step wasn't power—it was truth. Before she confronted the Circle, before she hunted down Mavrek, before she crossed the Second Veil… she needed answers from those still alive.
There were elders in the city of Virehall—necromancers turned archivists. They had served the Circle once, but in their old age, they had been cast aside. She remembered the names now—pulled from Alric's memories. One of them had held her when she was a baby. One had sworn to protect her mother.
They would talk. Or they would burn.
Before she left, she lit one more candle in the sanctuary and whispered a soft prayer—not to gods, but to memory.
To what she had become.
To what she still had to lose.