48. Seraphina
48
SERAPHINA
T he cave looms before us like a gaping wound in the earth.
Dark. Breathing.
It calls to me.
The inked map on my skin burns, thrumming with unseen energy, as if the cave itself recognizes me.
As if it knows why I’ve come.
As if it knows what I was made for.
Rylan moves beside me, his blade stained with Lartina’s blood, his breaths slow and controlled—but I know better. I feel the tension rolling off him in waves, the fury still coiling in his muscles, waiting to be unleashed.
He hasn’t spoken since he killed her. Since she whispered the truth that changed everything. That this was never about gold. That his father’s magic is the real treasure.
I know that knowledge is tearing him apart inside. But there’s no time to unravel it now.
Nhilian is waiting.
The moment we step inside, the air shifts. It’s thick, too thick, curling against my skin like smoke, whispering in the silence. The ruins stretch before us—endless—columns of black stone reaching toward the heavens, walls carved with forgotten symbols.
This place is ancient.
I shudder. Something watches us from the dark. I feel it. It's not just Nhilian. The moment my foot touches the first step toward the altar, the glowing begins.
At first, I think it’s just the cave—a trick of the torchlight, a reflection of the blue fire licking at the torches embedded in the walls.
But no.
It’s me.
The ink etched into my skin ignites, shifting, moving beneath my flesh like living threads of light.
I inhale sharply, fingers twitching.
The pull is relentless.
Dragging me forward, toward the altar.
"Seraphina," Rylan murmurs. His voice is sharp, urgent. "What the hell is happening?"
I can’t answer.
I don’t know.
My steps, resistant, somehow quicken.
The closer I get, the stronger it becomes—the pulse beneath my skin, the whisper in my bones.
This place knows me.
It has always known me.
I was made for this.
To open the door.
To complete what was started long before I ever drew breath.
The altar rises before me, monolithic, carved from the same obsidian stone as the cave.
It’s cracked, split down the center like a wound that never healed.
And behind it?—
A door.
A massive slab of stone, carved with sigils I don’t recognize.
Rylan grips my arm.
"Seraphina," he demands. "What is this?"
My breath shudders.
I move my arm, the ink shifting, twisting, aligning with the carvings before me.
This isn’t a map.
It’s a key.
A sound—low and mocking, echoing through the cavern.
"Ah. Here it is," a voice drawls. "The moment we’ve all been waiting for."
Rylan and I whirl in unison.
A figure steps from the shadows.
Tall. Imposing.
A scar runs from his brow to his jaw, carving through his dark elven skin like a cruel brand.
His eyes are like voids—bottomless, unreadable.
Nhilian.
He smiles. He is not alone.
His men emerge, dark shapes bleeding into the cavern walls, slipping into position like vipers preparing to strike.
We are surrounded.
Rylan’s grip on his blade tightens.
I feel his fury, his desperation.
I should be afraid.
But I’m not.
This was always how it was meant to end.
I am the key.
The door must open.