—Excerpt from Anguish of the Heart, First Book of the Revelations from the Lost Soul

 

The air in the vast library hung thick, a heavy perfume of old parchment, curing leather, and polished stone that smelled of time itself. A soft, amber glow of natural light filtered down from the Aula Illumis courtyard far above, illuminating the forest of stone shelves that rose seamlessly from the floor like the trunks of the petrified redwoods from the Bone Coast.

 

Krysaalis a’Ciermanuinn stood at a high reading desk in the Wing of Tides, a stack of bound history texts teetering precariously beside her. The suspended gallery of pipes and glass overhead murmured with the constant, rushing sound of water—a white noise blanket designed for deep focus. She had intended to spend the morning compiling a lesson on the Corsair War for the Torryaenen Twins—Ashterah had been asking difficult questions about the blockade of 1051—but the ink on her quill had dried hours ago.

 

She stared at the letter in her hand. The paper was heavy, cream-colored Vesprian stock, but the seal was foreign.

No place else did Krysaalis feel more in her element than here, amidst the silent conversation of a million authors. She had spent the better part of three Arcs navigating these serpentine aisles, first as a student, now as a respected Acolyte of Valis and tutor to the royal household. The Omnium was her sanctuary. It was ordered. It was cataloged. It made sense.

 

Yet today, the familiar, hushed reverence of the chamber did little to calm the unease twisting in her gut. The cryptic words on the page felt like a question this library could not answer.

 

She needed to find her mentor.

 

“Valgarion?” she called out.

 

Her voice was a soft echo in the immense chamber, swallowed almost instantly by the preservation acoustics designed to keep the Omnium silent.

 

She abandoned her lesson plan, leaving the stack of books where they lay—a small act of disorder that pricked at her discipline—and walked deeper into the stacks. The shelves here were carved from the living rock of the mountain, smoothed by generations of composition until they felt like glass to the touch. She trailed her fingers along the spines of the books: The Lineages of the Black Hammer, The Flora of the Outer Isles, The Treaties of King Wyann.

 

Knowledge. Safe, static, immutable knowledge.

 

“Minister?”

 

She turned a corner into the Hall of Roots, where the shelves curved in concentric circles. It was darker here, the light from the courtyard filtering through layers of suspended crystal that acted as prisms, casting rainbows across the floor. The air was thick with the scent of pollen and the heavy hum of preservation wards protecting the Mycelial Map—a massive fungal colony on the floor that twitched in real-time sympathy with the forests outside.

 

“Krysaalis?”

 

The response came from a distance, the voice bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. It was distinct, somewhere between pretentious and playful. It belonged to none other than her mentor, Valgarion Lyris.

 

She followed the sound, weaving through the maze until she found him near the southern perimeter wall. He was standing in the shadow of the massive entry door that opened onto the landing descending into the inky darkness of the Halls of Observance below. He was examining a patch of moss growing on the stone—an impossibility in the preserved air of the Omnium—with the delight of a child finding a sweet.

 

“What are you doing here?” Valgarion asked, not looking up.

 

“I have a letter—” Krysaalis started, her breath hitching slightly.

 

“For me? How exciting!” Valgarion bubbled, interrupting her. He bounced playfully on his tiptoes, abandoning the moss to drum his fingers together in a rhythmic jumble. “Is it from the Council? Has Illiryssa finally decided to cease her sniping and leave me in peace?”

 

Krysaalis had known the Minister for a long time. She first met him during the Pilgrimage of 966 AV in Lithrys when she was not yet through her seventh Arc—still an adolescent by shandaryn standards. She remembered him then as a dashing, if eccentric, scholar who treated her with a gravity most adults denied her. She had not known then that he would eventually become the bound partner of Princyn Illiryssa, and father to the next generation of Torryaenen princyn she now taught.

 

“No, for me,” Krysaalis responded, disappointed to deflate his feigned excitement.

 

“For you?” Valgarion’s effervescence frothed away instantly. He rocked back on his heels, his expression shifting to genuine curiosity. “Why would you come all the way down here looking for me with a letter for you?”

 

A small, nervous smile broke across the Acolyte’s lips. She held the letter up, shaking it once for emphasis. The paper rattled in the quiet hall.

 

“I need you to help me understand why Ealonde might decide to pluck me without warning from my place with your daughters to take me into the Eleysian Islands—in secret, mind you!—with someone named Cedrik Dawntreader.”

 

“Cedrik Dawntreader.” Valgarion rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowing in thought. “Hmmm. Yes, I think I know the name. Burly fellow. About this tall?” He held his hand flat a little higher than his own head. “Therysian. Loud. Smells of salt and old iron.”

 

The description meant little to Krysaalis, but the name associated with the summons—Lirynel—sent a familiar pang of worry through her. The last anyone had heard, Duke Dawntreader was the man who had spirited the Princyn away after the latest diplomatic effort with Therysia had collapsed into tragedy.

 

That had been five Circles ago. Five Circles of silence. Five Circles where the Qyen refused to speak her sister’s name in court.

 

Krysaalis visually measured the height of her mentor’s hand from the ground and put a hand on her hip, trying to imagine the burly fellow taller than most shandaryn. She knew Valgarion’s question was rhetorical and playful, but she chose to respond anyway.

 

“I don’t know. I’ve never met him. I am not even sure I’ve ever seen him. The letter says he is a Duke.”

 

“If you haven’t seen him, how will you know it is him who comes to claim you?” Valgarion asked quizzically, his mirth returning. “And when is he supposed to be here?”

 

“Again, I don’t know. The letter was vague on that point. It speaks of ‘tides’ and ‘opportunities.’ What I do know is that I’m supposed to leave with this Duke under nominally legitimate and justifiable reasons. That’s why I’m here. I need your help.”

 

Krysaalis felt the humor emanating from Valgarion fade, replaced by a deep, grounding concern. That feeling brought an end to her own smile. The air between them grew heavy, the playful atmosphere of the library evaporating.
Valgarion stood still. His gaze grew vacant, as if he looked through Krysaalis at something behind her, calculating variables she couldn't see. Then, the spark returned to his eyes, and he smirked.

 

“If you need my help to meet the conditions of the letter, then I say it is our letter. Let’s put our heads together. Touching is fine; we don’t need to create a new head or anything. I think I might have an idea.”

 

“Are you saying we should kiss?” Krysaalis asked skeptically, playing along to break the tension.

 

“Oh, Lord of Light, no!” Valgarion mused, feigning horror. “That’s a kali custom I’ve never understood. I use my lips to hold food in my mouth. What is so special about touching lips that cannot be had by touching in other, less disgusting ways?”

 

“No, Valgarion. I mean, yes, I agree. But no. I will not indulge your curiosity.”

 

“I only meant a hug, Krys. It’s a different and much less personal form of affection among the kali.”

 

“I know what a hug is. That is not what you meant,” Krysaalis said, fighting to keep the corners of her mouth flat.

 

Valgarion smiled wide. “Well, your mind rhymes with Reimes if you thought I meant anything different.”

 

Krysaalis rolled her eyes. “Come on. Let’s hear your plan.”

 

“Haven’t you always wanted to return to Ciermanuinn? Return home?” Valgarion asked. He turned and led them into one of the many ancient halls stretching out from the Omnium. This one led to his private study, a place few were permitted to enter.

 

“I have,” she responded, surprising herself with the reluctance in her own voice. “I just… of course I’ve always wanted to know what happened. What happened to my parents—my father—Ciermanuinn… any survivors. I know the rescue expeditions turned up no evidence and the Nottsver occupation of Aille led to our permanent retreat. Our abandonment of Ciermanuinn. So, why?”

 

She walked beside him, her boots clicking softly on the stone. She realized she was justifying not returning. She had spent her early Arcs in the Aula Illumis learning about her Elowyn ancestors, reading every scrap of history about the Fall, but her life had become one of Vesprian courtly and academic comfort. The Omnium was safe. Ciermanuinn was a graveyard.

 

“What do I think you could find?” Valgarion countered. He answered his own question with a simple shrug. “A bunch.”

 

“A bunch?” Krysaalis demanded. “Why?”

 

“Because I think there is still more for you to know,” Valgarion said, offering the polite smile one gives an overeager child.

 

He stopped short of his chamber door. It was an imposing barrier of dark, polished Iron-Heart. Impossible to open conventionally. Despite the decorative wood appearance, the ancient timber was as dense as lead and carried a weight that would break a normal man’s wrist. A small army could shove at it and make no progress.

 

For the Minister, it usually slid open at a gentle push as if it were light wood on newly greased hinges. His deep understanding of the Symphony of Elements made the feat possible.

 

This time, however, he did not push. He stepped aside and turned to Krysaalis with an encouraging smile.

 

“Go ahead, my dear.”

 

“Open your door?” Krysaalis asked in surprise. She hadn’t done this since she was his pupil many Arcs before. “Val, I haven’t practiced Composition in months.”

 

“Then it is a good thing muscle memory exists for the mind as well as the body,” he said.

 

The Composition of Elements scared Krysaalis. She understood the foundation Movements—the physics of the world translated into song—but she avoided playing related melodies whenever she could. She remembered too well the stories of the Unsung: those who tried to sing a song of fire and burned their own throats, or those who tried to sing of gravity and crushed their own bones when the dissonance backlashed.

 

She reached toward the fancy brass knocker, intending to use the conduction of the metal ring to physically shove the door.

“No,” Valgarion interrupted.

Krysaalis glared at him. “What do you mean ‘no?’ You were nodding.”

“I was. Yes, open the door. No, don’t touch the knocker.”

She blinked. “Open the door without touching the knocker?”

“Yes,” Valgarion said, nodding for emphasis. “Remember not to blind yourself, okay? You still have things to see.”

 

Krysaalis sighed, feeling the familiar prickle of heat behind her ears—her Mask flushing a faint strawberry pink. “Hush.”

 

She closed her eyes, taking a slow, centering breath. She pushed away the scent of the library and the sound of Valgarion’s breathing. She reached out with her mind, seeking the Grand Composition.

It appeared to her not as music, but as a chained network of lightning arcs—a web of energy connecting all things. In her mind’s eye, the world dissolved into threads of white, blue, and violent violet light, crackling with the latent potential of the universe.

She searched for the Key.

Above the door, a resonance lamp burned with a steady, artificed glow. She focused on it. She didn't need the heat; she needed the reflection. She found the thread of light bouncing from the sconce to the brass knocker. It was a thin, jagged arc of yellow energy.

She grabbed it with her mind.

Connection established.

From that single thread of light reflecting off the metal ring, her perception expanded into the door itself. She could feel it now—not with her hands, but with her soul. She felt the immense, crushing weight of the Iron-Heart wood. She felt the cold density of the metal bands. She felt the air pressure pushing against the grain.

 

It was all there, a silent chord waiting to be played.

She began to hum, a low, resonant sound deep in her throat. She tuned her soul-song to match the frequency of the glow.

Snap. A subtle guttering of the resonance lamp told her the connection was solid.

Now, the manipulation. She needed the Note of Mass. In her vision, this was a thick, static charge—a heavy, iron-grey vibration that anchored the door to the earth. To move the door, she didn't need strength; she needed to change the song.

She sang the second note, a higher, clearer pitch. She targeted the grey static of the door’s mass and poured her will into it, rewriting the song. She envisioned the grey turning to a buoyant, floating white.

The strain hit her immediately. A headache spiked behind her eyes as the dissonance fought her. The door wanted to be heavy. Nature resisted the change. She remembered the stories of the Unsung—artificers who had slipped a note and burned their own throats or left a small crater where they once stood when the backlash hit.

 

She held the note.

“You don’t have to close your eyes,” Valgarion said quietly from beside her.

Krysaalis opened them, holding the two notes in perfect harmony in her mind. The headache persisted, a dull throb, but the door... the door looked different now. Lighter.

She reached out a hand and pushed the air in front of it.

The great door swung open, silent and effortless, as if caught in a sudden draft.

“No, Val. I don’t have to close my eyes.”

She released the song. The door slammed against the inner wall with a heavy, satisfying thud as its true weight returned.

Beyond the doorway lay Valgarion’s personal sanctum. The room was a familiar circle of quiet scholarship, but to Krysaalis, it was a chamber of ghosts.

Her gaze was immediately drawn to the two statues flanking the great desk. One was of Lyra, the First Minister, clutching a copy of the Epic of the Eight Stars. Her stone face was set in a permanent expression of burdened wisdom—the woman who had codified the faith of a nation while fleeing a burning homeland.

The other statue stopped Krysaalis’s breath, as it always did. Qyen Carielyn.

Not the frail matriarch of Krysaalis’s memory, the woman who had died in her bed with skin like parchment. This was the Carielyn of legend—the vital, powerful scholar who had held this very post for centuries before ascending the throne. Looking at the statue's stone face, Krysaalis felt the echo of the Qyen's protection, a warmth that still lingered in these halls like the heat of a fire long extinguished.

“Your chamber looks the same,” Krysaalis said as she stepped inside, the memory of the Composition fading from her mind.

“My chamber has had little reason to change, and probably thinks you look the same, too.”

Krysaalis lingered on the ancient banners hanging upon the walls. Each bore the colors and symbology of one of the Seven Sisters of the Ashta Vespri. Her eyes settled on the tapestry edged with an intricate border of braided silver and obsidian threads. Within the weave, a shimmering violet dominated the space, overlain with opposing triangles, one white and one black. Where they overlapped, a silvery fog filled the nexus, holding the outline of an ever-watchful, open eye.

Valis. The Sister of Knowledge. The patron of this house, and of Krysaalis’s own life.

The tapestry suddenly fluttered, as if someone had stumbled into it from behind.

Valgarion’s features grew grim, then abruptly animated. “Ashterah!”

Before Krysaalis could articulate her confusion at hearing the name of the Great Mother herself—the mythical progenitor of the Sisters—a shandaryn girl untangled herself from the tapestry.

Krysaalis recognized her immediately and mirrored the girl’s wide, radiant smile. It was Valgarion’s eldest daughter, Ashterah. She was so close to adulthood now that few would make the distinction, her golden hair catching the light of the resonance lamps.

Ashterah waved playfully.

“Ash, I asked you to wait in the translocation laboratory with your sister. I was just on my way there,” Valgarion said with mock seriousness.

“I know, but Torryaen was playing with her swords again and I love coming down here,” Ashterah responded, her voice sweet like warm honey.

Her father’s stern facade melted instantly. “So, now our mother’s sister knows your secret room?”

“She does now,” Valgarion said wryly. “And what is that under your arm? Is that Anguish of the Heart, Ash? I asked you not to take that from the Repository. Does your mother know you’re reading that?”

Ashterah’s eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth. Krysaalis knew instantly what the book's origin must be: The Repository of Thought. The name itself was a whisper, a vault of forbidden knowledge deep beneath the Omnium where the air was cold enough to freeze breath and the silence was absolute.

“I’m sorry, father. I didn’t mean…” Ashterah fumbled, clutching the ancient tome to her chest. The leather binding was cracked and black, radiating a sense of unease that Krysaalis could feel from across the room.

“Oh no, no, no. It’s completely fine, my erudite child,” Valgarion cooed. “I actually wanted to take Krys down to look at it anyway.”

“Can I—” Ashterah began.

“No, Ash. Not this time. I have something important to show your tutor. Would you please find the part describing the Unmaker’s return? The part where Selyne’s Shield protected the Seven Sisters? Dome Oira?”

The Acolyte tried to reconcile “Unmaker’s return.” That went well past the canon beliefs of Vesprians. Rakna, the Ninth Scroll, described the return of the Darkness—a concept the Stornir openly sought to bring about. It was a heresy, a myth, a nightmare.

“Oh,” Valgarion said, as if remembering a minor detail. “Because it must be time already. But it still seems kind of early to me.”

“Time for what?” Krysaalis asked, suddenly genuinely confused.

“Your letter. From Lirynel, yes? Well, Ealonde, but we both know it’s from Lirynel, right?” Valgarion asked.

Krysaalis nodded silently.

“Then it’s time for you to go home, my dear,” Valgarion said.

“Back… back to Rosethorn?”

“No. Ciermanuinn.”

“Ciermanuinn!” Krysaalis repeated, the name of her homeland hitting her like a physical blow. The void inside her opened up again. “But why? How? No one has been there since I was still a child. And it’s forbidden. No one is there. There were no survivors.”

“Yeah, actually my dear, that part’s untrue,” Valgarion said, considering his words carefully. “There were survivors, and we did make contact. Well, Tependil did, anyway.”

“What?!” Krysaalis gasped. Valgarion had completely deconstructed her entire understanding of the world in the space of a few sentences. She felt light, nauseous. Her Mask flushed pink with flecks of gold, betraying her shock. “But, if that’s true, then—”

“Then why didn’t Qyen Carielyn say something?” Valgarion finished for her. “Because they needed to be dead. They needed to be lost and forgotten. The Stornir needed to give up. Every time a Vesprian expedition came ashore, it
piqued Stornir interest. It was a difficult decision, but one everyone grudgingly agreed to.”

“Vespria could have scattered the Stornir,” Krysaalis argued, her voice rising.

“And what would that have done?” the Minister asked. “It would have told them and all around that the island held such significance that Vespria would stand against every threat to protect it. That would only have thrown more mystery and curious interest their way. Carielyn and the Ciermanuinn representative decided it safer for the survivors if everyone believed them gone. Which means… they were protecting something significant.”

“Like what?” Ashterah asked, hugging the book to her chest.

“Krysaalis,” Valgarion began, “what was it you told me before about your memory of that night? About what your mother told you?”

The Acolyte’s mind swirled, drawn back to the dragon’s shadow, the flame of pitch, and her mother’s face.

“They came for the Silver Wolf,” Krysaalis said quietly. “My father told of a small band of Elowyn who lived beside and among the wolves of Aille.”

“The Silver Fangs of Selyne,” Valgarion filled in.

“The Silver Fangs were supposed to be a myth,” Krysaalis said. “But my father shared it with me. Was he telling the truth?”

“And your mother said ‘they came for the Silver Wolf?’ Who or what was the Silver Wolf, Krys?”

 

Realization dawned. “The Silver Blade. They were after the Silver Blade. That’s what the Qyen and survivors gave up rescue to protect. Why?”

Valgarion strode forward and placed a hand gently on the Acolyte’s shoulder.

“Not just the Silver Blade, Krys. You. Whether or not they knew it, all of us who knew protected you. You are your parents’ legacy. And for reasons that Lirynel can surely explain, the time has come for you to return to Aille, to Ciermanuinn, to find the Silver Wolf, or learn the wolf’s story, and recover the Silver Blade. That is your fate. No one else could be trusted with such a task.”

Krysaalis felt tears tip over her eyelids. Home. Real home.

“Why Lirynel? What does this have to do with the Dome Oira?”

Valgarion squeezed her shoulder. He glanced at the ancient tome in Ashterah’s hands.

“Because, Krys. She’s the only one who knows how to find the hidden trail. It is the story of the Great Mother’s heart forever lost with the black sunrise.”

“That’s… another lie, isn’t it?”

Valgarion nodded solemnly. “That book contains the true story of the Heart, Krys. The story that even Valis chose not to tell.”

“How do we know it's real?”

“Because, Krys. She told us herself. Or rather, she told Torryaen the Great. Carielyn thought she saw Ashterah’s Heart inside you. The Silver Blade is the only way to know for sure. And you are the only one who can find it.”

Valgarion let his hand drop. “Krysaalis, I wish I had more time. I would enjoy your company as I return with my dear daughter to show her how to bind harmonium. Soon, you will be on your way, and I do hope you will find me again when next you return to Vespyr.”

Krysaalis could do nothing more than smile in stunned shock. Valgarion approached the desk and whispered with his daughter. Her smile wilted as the Acolyte thought of the relationship stripped from her she once had with her own father.

But Valgarion was right. It was time for her to go home.