Chapter Forty-Nine #2
Elandor has scrolls and frayed parchment tucked under his arms, a quill in each ear, glasses still balancing precariously on his nose, and an extra set nestled into his disheveled hair on top of his head.
His robes flap behind him, before he tucks them beneath himself and takes a seat at the head of the table.
“I knew of the prophecy long before you were born, Elyssara,” he begins, voice shifting slightly—more authoritative, as if he’s transformed from stammering librarian to Archivist of the realms in a heartbeat.
“So I’ve been preparing for when it would be enacted.
You see, nothing changes the tide of battle quite like knowledge that can alter the seas,” he says, raising his eyebrows in curiosity.
Teddy huffs in exasperation, and I know why—he has little patience for riddles and obscurity. At least he has the good sense to allow Elandor to keep going.
Seren leans in, her elbows pressing into the table with palpable eagerness.
“But first,” Elandor announces, “I assume you have the great Lunar Codex.” His words reverberate through the chamber as if he’s announcing someone important.
How in the Stars did he know that?
As if he can hear my thoughts, Elandor’s eyes land on mine.
“We have Shades in every village, town, and city on every continent, Elyssara, and a very advanced messaging infrastructure that allows us to communicate with great speed and ease,” he explains with a wink.
“Benefits of a continent of scholars, I suppose,” he adds with a shrug.
I stammer, searching for words.
“And if you must know, it was Gellesk,” he offers before I’ve summoned a single word to my tongue.
Fucking Gellesk.
A heavy thud echoes through the chamber—
The Codex tumbles onto the table as Seren pulls the great tome from her satchel and fumbles it.
“Yes,” she confirms, patting the top of the tome with her hand.
The silver sigils flare to life under her palm, splintering across the forbidden book like metallic veins.
Elandor’s eyes blow wide at the sight, seemingly at a loss for words.
“Yeah, she does that from time to time. Hears the winds, speaks to weapons, reads runes—that sort of thing. That’s our Seren,” Ronyn says, clapping Seren on the shoulder, his ankles crossed on the oak table.
Seren rolls her eyes, shaking her head at Ronyn’s irreverence.
“You’re— You’re…” Elandor stutters, eyes trained on Seren, but he trails off.
“I’m Veilborn, yes,” Seren finishes for him.
Elandor’s hand trembles as it hovers above the Codex, quill tip blotting ink onto the table. The entire chamber seems to hold its breath—no page rustles, no lantern flickers.
His voice drops, so soft it barely reaches across the table. “No, dear. No, no, no.” He swallows hard, eyes flicking to the others, as if speaking the word might summon something best left buried.
“You’re a witch.”
A what?
“The witch lines have died out,” Jax snaps. “Haven’t been seen for decades.”
Seren doesn’t move, her face a mask of shock. Frozen in place.
My mind frays and reels—witch lines?
“How can this be?” Teddy demands, his voice stern and unforgiving, though his hand presses into Seren’s thigh, soothing her with his touch.
“Why did the Cindrali people call her Veilborn?” I press, and Mavyrn catches my eye. The old woman says nothing. Doesn’t move. Only smirks as if she knew all along.
Kael doesn’t say anything, either—but I notice the way he takes in everyone’s reaction. The way his eyes linger on Mavyrn. The way he notices her smirk, just the way I did.
“Ah, okay. Okay. Yes, I can explain. I see there is much you don’t know,” Elandor splutters, pushing his spectacles back to the bridge of his nose.
“Veilborn is the term used by the Cindrali to describe their specific lineage of witches from centuries ago when all their tribes were united. They call it Veilborn because no one can sense you or your bloodline, seeing as you are not actually a magic wielder,” he explains, though I’m certain it’s only created more questions.
Seren nods slowly, trying to take it all in. Her eyes drag slowly to Elandor, the riot of thoughts running through her head are visible in the blank expression on her face. “What’s Mavyrn then? Is she not a witch, too?”
All eyes shoot to Mavyrn, but the old woman doesn’t flinch. She was waiting for this.
“I’m a half-breed, girl,” Mavyrn says gruffly, though I can still see the glint of something dark in her eyes.
“Ah yes, that’s accurate. Mavyrn is a half-breed witch, though we prefer to call them Arcanists. Not quite so insulting that way, you see,” Elandor explains nervously under Mavyrn’s gaze.
“And I— I’m a full-blooded witch?” Seren asks, tripping over the words awkwardly.
“By what I can tell with the way the Codex responds to you, yes. You are a pure-blooded witch. Or, just… a witch,” Elandor confirms, voice going soft.
“Why, though?” I interrupt, confused. “Why does the Codex responding to Seren make you certain she’s a witch?”
“Because the witches created the Codex right here on Nymerian soil, bound it by blood. It hasn’t been opened in a long time. And the Codex? It recognized her. Or rather, it recognizes its kin.” Elandor’s tone is more certain this time. Stronger, as if this is fact.
“And, it hasn’t been opened because the witch lines died out?” I clarify, trying to see if I understand.
But Elandor’s eyes bore into me, then. Unflinching and true. “Not quite. The witches are not gone—they were almost hunted to extinction, contrary to popular belief. It is my belief that some lines live on across the continents—hiding themselves.”
I suck in a sharp breath. Hunted?
No one breathes. No one moves. We simply… wait.
But it’s Kael who asks the only question that matters. “Who hunted them?” His gravelly voice carves through the silence like a blade.
Elandor’s eyes flick across the table, searching for courage, for refuge, for anything. But in the end, they land on me.
His voice is grave, stripped of riddles and pleasantries.
“The Dravari royals.”