43. Vault of the First Stone
Vault of the First Stone
KAEL
Still reeling from Syoran’s collapse, I turned to the privilege he had granted me and began my search for anything that could steer us in the right direction.
My connection with the bound parchment we had found tucked behind one of Caspian’s shelves had granted me the title of being the only one allotted time to study it until we all gathered to meet.
Grimoire opened in front of me, I sat cross-legged on the couch in Caspian’s quarters. Everything around me seemed to fade as I traced my finger over the ancient text. Mind traversing the lines carved in prophecy and sprinkled with hints, I focused on the passage I had marked with pertinence.
Five Thrones were raised before the stars could sing. Five Hands forged the world from ash and flame. Five Hearts were sundered, that all might live, yet none may reign forever in one name.
Seek not a god with empty hands, for every Crown remembers its own Key.
The Relics five, by blood once sworn, must wake what awaits to be born.
When every Heir before their Sire shall stand, and every Relic answers with blood alone, let circle, sigil, and sacred word unite beneath the Vault of the First Stone.
Then shall the Veils be drawn apart, the Ancient Fires made as one.
The Parent yields the deathless spark; the Child receives their potent mark.
No sword shall strike. No poison stain. No mortal hand shall claim the Throne.
For flesh alone cannot bear the Crown, nor dust inherit what was never sown.
Beware the Seated One unknown, whose soul was kindled beyond said Veil.
Born of a covenant left unspoken, hidden where every mortal chart must fail.
When twin-born stars at last align, and distant blood remembers blood, the silent sea shall lose its shroud, and forgotten paths shall awaken from the flood.
Five lights shall fade. Five stars ascend.
The old shall pass, the new shall reign.
Thus turns the Wheel from age to age, through sacrifice, through blood, through claim.
Remember well this is final law, lest pride undo what fate has spun—should even one Relic fail its call, then none shall rise… and all are undone.
Every word held weight, my eyes roving over each letter, especially those capitalized with irrefutable attention. They were clues doused in convolutedness, framing the riddle to the point perspective became superfluous, and interpretation straddled the lines of alleviation or damnation.
“Five thrones were raised before the stars could sing. Five hands forged the world from ash and flame…” I ran a hand through my hair, loosening the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“The five gods—Ellira, Elaros, Jaskor, Ysalyne, and Seirdra—and their creation as well as ruling over the lands.”
It was the most logical link amongst the neat scroll, one that my time in the palace granted me the advantage of learning.
The Damned’s uninterrupted reign had once painted Wraelira with peace.
Before the Others, and the link of each respectable god, power pulsed through every street, mapped out every landmass, and blanketed each province.
Our continent lived and breathed magic for centuries, while the dark entities that now commanded it walked amongst the shadows, butchering the descendants of those deemed ethereal at the time.
As I flipped through volumes in the palace’s libraries and archives, absorbing all I could to aid the shift of good and evil, I began to form my own assumptions.
All of them clung to mere chance, not confirmed by written word or historical retelling, but harbored a presumed clue of the Others’ intentions.
And, as I stroked my thumb over the worn parchment before me, my younger self screamed as if to confirm every superstition I clung to as an early teen was probable.
Like a part of me had always known.
The rise of the Others hadn’t happened overnight; it’d been bubbling for decades.
Once powerless, lesser-born entities, each Divari they slaughtered granted them a fraction of the gods’ power, a hit of addictive potential.
Every carving on their flesh wasn’t a mere sigil, but one they’d drawn into the skin of the victims before feasting on their essence.
They were soul eaters, creatures whose appetites were insatiable, and whose abilities derived from the consumption of divine Children.
They’d divided the realms… the continents as a means to give themselves a chance at eradication, at swallowing all the Damned had built. And all that remained was one Child per god, for a total of ten.
“Five hearts were sundered… Split apart.” I contemplated the remnants of the sentence.
“That all might live, yet none may reign forever in one name… Meaning that all five Children of each Damned may live, but that, because of the divide between gods, they’ll never reform with their split counterparts? ”
Something brushed against my subconscious, its feather-light touch oddly familiar. “Yes.”
Writing it off as a gut feeling, I continued, “Seek not a god with empty hands, for every crown remembers its own key… Is it hinting that the celestial hierarchy will always remember the keys capable of deconstructing the veil? The Divari?”
That same sensation returned as if in confirmation.
I ran with the possibility of my analysis proving factual and continued, “The relics five, by blood once sworn, must wake what awaits to be born. Which must simply mean all five relics returning to the respective Divari will awaken the power they harbor.” Another caress.
I kept reading. “When every heir before their sire shall stand, and every relic answers with blood alone, let circle, sigil, and sacred word unite beneath the Vault of the First Stone.” Pausing, I repeated the last line.
“Every relic answers with blood alone, let circle, sigil, and sacred word… Vault of the First Stone…”
Wait.
As I inhaled, memories bubbled to the surface. First, my routine stroll through the palace. Then, a redirection, a call from my father that I was required to answer. No, not a call… A warning. A cautionary statement bordering on threatening, a key piece of the puzzle.
“The cellar in the north wing has been closed, and anyone who enters it shall be executed for treason. Do you understand, boy?”
Sorva had been there, perched on the dais in her human form.
Her near-white bob swayed with feigned holiness, pallid complexion glinting beneath torchlight.
Her form-fitting royal blue dress had made her appear so normal, so human, that I had overlooked it.
But now, with all I knew, the intentions became apparent and the secrecy boiled to the forefront.
“Holy shit… Holy fucking shit.”
Circling the Vault of the First Stone, I made a note in the margin—perhaps the location of the Damned’s thrones? A destroyed cellar in the palace’s north wing, one that my father forbade me from venturing into as soon as I started reading up on the history of the old gods and the Others.
Quill in hand, I ran through the next paragraph.
It was easily decipherable, a proclamation of what awaited Wraelira and whatever lay beyond, and a promise of a better future once all Divari reunited.
As I jumped to the grouping of text, a tremor shook my hands, a feeling similar to what I had experienced upon finding the grimoire slithering up my spine.
“Beware the Seated One unknown, whose soul was kindled beyond said veil… Me?” Thoughts wavering, my interaction with Parran after I tapped into a power I didn’t even know I had rolled forward.
They’d claimed that I had ties and bonds beyond Wraelira, a continent they belonged to.
“Born of a covenant left unspoken, hidden where every mortal chart must fail. When twin-born stars at last align, and distant blood remembers blood—”
An unexplainable force slammed into my chest, stealing oxygen from my lungs upon impact. Vision blurring, the darkness that clung to its edges seeped further before shadows swallowed Caspian’s chamber and birthed an entirely different scene.
The world around me emerged in fragments, as though a recollection itself had taken shape. Ancient trees arched overhead, their immense trunks twisted into impossible shapes. Branches intertwined, it was as if the Goddess of Life had carved a living cathedral, swallowed by the sky.
Following a narrow path, I roved over the luminous flowers that shimmered like fallen stars, their pale glow the only comfort in a forest steeped in endless twilight.
Goosebumps rose on my skin, the cold, damp air unnaturally still.
The scent of moss and rain-soaked earth caressed my nostrils, but something impossibly old lingered.
Something mystical.
Ahead, half-buried beneath roots that had spent centuries claiming their prize, stood the remnants of a tomb.
Its weathered stone steps climbed toward a fractured archway, and I wasted no time traversing them.
Brushing my fingertips over long-forgotten symbols, I watched their diagonal and horizontal shapes replicate.
What started as complex broke down into simpler drawings, ten of them replicating as they descended to the cracked granite setts below.
The sigils of all ten Divari.
Before I could memorize their patterns, the sharp crack of steel interrupted me. The sound swelled, as if in approach, and I craned my head to glance over my shoulder, two individuals slipping into view.