43. Chapter 43
Death.
The word dropped like a stone in the room, and in Isla’s stomach alike, though she had already arrived at the conclusion she now voiced. “It isn’t that a cure hasn’t been found yet,” she said.“There is no cure.”
Asmarin inclined her head in confirmation and a heavy silence fell, threatening to swallow them all.
It was Vaelin who broke the silence.
“Why?” he asked, his voice rough, his own hands now curled into fists. “Why did The Shattering occur in the first place? And why are we being subjected to it now? And why didn’t anyone know this was coming?” This last piece he directed at Asmarin.
She met his gaze without flinching.
“The elemental magic in each realm is tied to the earth - the Source. Even in Terravern, earth magic is strongest, though the humans that inhabit the realm do not draw upon it. As the realms warred, isolated themselves, and hoarded power, they began to overdraw on the earth, weakening the very fabric of the realms. Cracks formed, and peace between peoples fractured,” she paused, as though letting that initial piece of information sink in, and a shiver ran over Isla’s skin, raising the hairs on her arms.
“The Gods aren’t inherently malevolent,” Asmarin continued, “They are the guardians of the Source, awakened only when the realms begin to destroy what the Gods themselves were created to protect. And as Lyra has already told you, it seems The Shattering was intended to act as a reset, triggered by our collective greed, hubris, and reckless ambition.”
Beside her, Vaelin ground his teeth, glaring at her. But Asmarin continued, unbothered.
“As far as your last question, Dunovarian Seers such as myself are today only an echo of what we once were,” she said gravely.
“We see mostly disconnected, imperfect flashes of truths, of possible futures that are not always true or complete. There are many threads, choices, that lead to different fates, and others still that can be snapped or reversed with subsequent actions.”
Evric leaned forward, the chair he sat on creaking alarmingly. “So how do we stop it?”
Asmarin flicked her eyes toward the firewielder. “That,” she said, “is a question that I can answer more confidently. But first, there are some truths among your own number that have not yet been shared.” She looked pointedly to Vaelin and Isla.
Vaelin didn’t move as both Aurelia and Evric’s eyes swung to him.
“What is she talking about,” Evric snapped, his patience teetering on the razor thin edge of a cliff.
“Isla and I had a shared vision on the Skybridge,” Vaelin said. “It was like a Dreamwalker vision, but… different.”
“What do you mean ‘shared?’” Aurelia asked, confused.
“We both saw the same vision. We were there - in the vision - together,” Isla said, “You were there, too.”
This did nothing to satisfy Aurelia and Evric’s confusion, so Isla took a steadying breath, and recounted the vision in as much detail as she could remember.
Her eyes slid out of focus as she recalled the heat of the desert slamming into them, the wind whipping strands of her hair across her face, the sun blood red in the sky.
She felt the grains of sand sliding across her cheeks like tiny shards of glass.
They stood outside The City’s rise, facing the settlement, as a battle raged within.
She recalled Vaelin at her side, his eyes glowing with power, the tendrils of golden light that wound around her own hand as lightning flashed overhead.
She recalled Aurelia and Evric drawing on power of their own, despite their exhaustion, and the warrior she now recognized as Drae laughing bitterly as his skin cracked with fissures of flame, his red eyes glowing.
He stood with them, not against them. She heard the clang of metal and the screams echoing in her head as though she was there again, the metallic scent of blood on the suffocating, heated air, and watched as the shadows bled from the cracks in the rise, advancing on them.
In the distance, Lyra ran, shadows at her back, and Isla screamed. And then she heard it again.
Beginnings and endings and unwritten futures. You must seek the shards. They are waiting.
Isla finished speaking, blinking away the strange, foggy feeling. Around the table, her friends seemed to process what they had just learned — all but Asmarin, whose lips had curved into the slightest smile as she stared at Isla.
“How did you remember all that?” Evric asked, shaking his head.
Isla shrugged. “I’ve always had a good memory for details.”
“It is not merely an excellent memory, nor the ability to recall,” Asmarin said, stepping forward with her elegant fingers clasped before her. “It is the power of imprint. It is the mark of the Velari.”
Isla felt Vaelin go so still beside her, it was as though his blood had stopped flowing in his veins. She looked to him, finding his eyes slightly widened, pupils enlarged — a more obvious display of shock than she had ever witnessed him show.
“The mark of the...?” Isla asked, distracted by Vaelin’s sudden stillness.
“The Velari,” Asmarin finished for her, “They resided in the ancient realm of Velithor before the first breaking of the world. An ancient race of fae, often referred to as truth keepers. They wielded the power of memory. They were destroyed eons ago, in the First Shattering,” Asmarin fixed her gaze on Isla.
“You and your siblings may well be their last descendants.”
Isla’s jaw slackened, and her mind seemed to tighten, spiralling with refusals and rebuttals. But the ability to form words seemed to have been taken from her. Her eyes darted to Lyra, who smiled at her sadly. Isla felt it then - in her bones, in her soul. It was the truth. Her throat felt thick.
“You are of course, not full-blooded fae,” Asmarin continued as though she hadn’t just announced something that had tilted Isla’s world on its axis. “You are demi-fae, albeit very diluted.”
“What does that mean?” Isla managed to croak out.
Asmarin blinked. “It means that you have the ability to wield the power of memory, of imprint. You can remember places, dreams, things you have seen or read with perfect detail. You can read peoples’ memories, you can remind them of memories lost, or knit new ones in place of the old,” Isla gripped the edge of the table, her bloodied palms leaving streaks of blood on the table.
Her knuckles were white, and her breath came too thin.
Asmarin was still speaking. “And it means that you are much less fragile than you likely thought. Demi-fae enjoy many of the same advantages as the fae — more strength, faster healing, longer lifespans.”
Vaelin’s breath hitched beside her, barely audible, but she felt it.
The subtle shift in his posture, the way his fisted fingers loosened ever so slightly, as though some long-held tension had left his body.
Isla felt the tips of her own fingers tingle, as though her circulation had suddenly surged, but when she glanced down, they looked normal.
She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head slightly, feeling lightheaded.
Asmarin addressed her again, “You are descended from the Velari through your mother’s line. And you are the one we’ve been waiting for, all these years.”
To do what? Isla shook her head. Denial danced on the tip of her tongue, but instead she asked, “Why me? Why not Lyra?”
“Lyra has her own part to play in all of this. But she does not wield the power of imprint.”
It couldn’t be true, couldn’t be real… But even as she thought the words, her mind wandered to her grandmother’s ‘episodes.’ She had thought them nothing more than an old woman’s ramblings as her mind grew more slippery in her advanced age, but now…
Suddenly, some of Gran’s last words to her rose in her mind.
The winds bend to his will, more than he yet knows. You are determined to be an island, but are the eye of the storm.
Isla’s eyes snapped to Vaelin, to find him already watching her. His eyes burned with an intensity that made her feel like her skin was on fire. She just looked at him wordlessly, her head spinning faster and faster as she tried to remember how to breathe.
“A Godsdamned shadow army," Evric muttered. "That’s what we'll be facing."
Vaelin finally tore his gaze from Isla. "It matches Maeylar's report."
“The Hollowborne,” Lyra offered, and Vaelin’s eyes snapped to hers. “That’s what I’ve been able to translate from the texts. Twisted creatures of corrupted magic, created to ensure the destruction of the Shattering.”
Evric exchanged a glance with Vaelin and Aurelia. “We’ve heard of them,” he said bitterly.
“And the shards?” Aurelia said. "What are they?"
"I have no idea," Isla said, and all eyes turned to her, but she slid her own to Asmarin. “But that was your voice I heard in that vision. So, I expect we’re about to find out.”
Asmarin met her gaze, dipping her chin slightly. Something passed through her eyes that Isla couldn’t quite place — was it hope? Regret? “Come,” she said.
With a swish of her golden robes, the Seer crossed the room, pressing a hand to the wall.
A door with nearly indecipherable edges sighed against her touch, revealing a plain stone staircase, spiralling into the darkness beneath the library.
Without a word, Asmarin began the descent, leaving them all no choice but to follow.
They followed the Seer down, down, down beneath the opulent halls of the Great Library and into what Isla could only describe as a cavern.
The spiral staircase they descended appeared etched into the stone of the building, seemingly endless in its descent.
By the time they reached its end, Isla’s legs burned with effort.
Asmarin led them to another chamber. Here, there were no stained glass windows, no artistic opulence. Nothing, but smooth stone. The chamber housed only one thing at its centre — a stone pedestal, upon which sat a jagged stone encased in glass, unassuming in its appearance.
Isla glanced to her left, where Vaelin stood staring at the fragment of stone. His brow was furrowed, his body tense, as though braced for danger. Isla’s eyes slid next to Aurelia, who shrugged, then Evric, who glared at the stone as though it had offended him.
“What is it?” he asked, bluntly.
“It is an ancient memory shard,” Asmarin said as she moved toward the stone, carefully lifting the glass casing away and placing it on the ground.
“A memory of what?” Isla asked.
“It is the first piece of a much larger truth, long buried. And only you can unlock it,” she said, piercing Isla with strangely golden eyes.
Isla’s brows lifted. “Why me?”
“You wield the power of imprint. You are descended from the Velari. And most importantly,” Asmarin gestured to Isla’s right hand, “you hold the key.”
Isla glanced down at her hand, turning it so that her palm faced up, as though expecting to find something there.
“Your ring,” Asmarin clarified.
Slowly, Isla rotated her hand, glancing at where her mother’s ring sat on her finger. “What, this? No,” she shook her head. “This is just—”
“—a family heirloom,” Asmarin finished for her. “Your mother gave it to you when you came of age, and you have worn it ever since. You don’t take it off in the evening, or to bathe, or even when healing others.”
Isla swallowed, a small shiver running down her spine at the accuracy of the statement. Asmarin smiled slightly.
“That is no ordinary ring, child. It has been passed down for generations, for centuries. Etara crafted it to be intentionally plain and unassuming, so it would never draw the eye of a thief, nor be sold off in times of economic hardship. It is spelled to never be lost, to cause great discomfort and unease within its bearer should it be removed for any reason other than to pass it down to the next-eldest daughter. When it comes time to pass it down to the next generation, the bearer is consumed with the need to do so.”
Isla’s pulse thrummed in her neck as she swallowed, her eyes slipping out of focus.
Isla had stood before the wash basin, shoulder to shoulder with her mother where they always cleaned their hands before treating and dressing patients’ wounds. Isla wrapped her fingers around the stone ring, tugging at it.
“What do you think you’re doing?” her mother had demanded, panic edging her voice.
“I — we have to wash. I don’t want to introduce dirt into the wound,” Isla had stammered.
“You cannot take it off. You must never take it off,” her mother had said, her voice ringing with an urgency Isla had never heard.
Isla had taken a shaky breath, pushing the ring back into place on her finger, apologizing. It fit so perfectly, she’d thought, idly.
Her mother had blinked then, loosening her grip on Isla’s wrist and shaking her head as if to shake some thought from her head.
“I’m sorry, my little island,” she’d said, touching a hand gently to Isla’s cheek. “I just don’t want you to lose it.”
“Why you?” Asmarin repeated, her voice dragging Isla back to the present, “Because you hold the key. You are the Shardseeker.”
Isla’s mind swam, Vaelin’s words from weeks earlier that felt like a lifetime ago in a forest on the outskirts of Rowanmere echoing through her mind.
You were the answer, somehow. You would be our salvation. I don’t know how, but I do know that you are the key.
Asmarin crossed the room, coming to a halt next to Isla.
A faint buzzing rang through the room, as though it ran through the very walls that surrounded them.
How had she not heard that when she’d entered?
Isla looked to the pedestal in the centre of the room.
The rock - memory shard - seemed to pulse, though it looked no different than it had when they’d entered the chamber.
“You can feel it,” Asmarin said. It was a statement, not a question. “It calls to you. Unlock it.”
“I don’t know how,” Isla murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She was walking, moving toward the pedestal though she had made no conscious decision to do so.
Asmarin gave her a faint smile, her thin lips curving ever so slightly at the edges. “All you have to do is touch the ring to it, and open your mind. It will not hurt you. This echo chamber was built to make projection easy — we will all see what you see. Now, show us how to stop this.”
Isla raised a trembling hand, and took a sharp intake of breath as her eyes fell to her hand, where a sudden, pleasant warmth wrapped around her palm. Her ring glowed, threads of soft, golden light leaking from it. Isla swallowed, and placed her hand lightly on the shard.
Golden light exploded from her hand, threads of gold winding their way around her fingers, up her arm, and throughout the chamber like a web, painting the stone floor and walls in a mosaic of blinding, molten gold. Isla’s eyes flew wide and she gasped, filling her lungs with air.
And then she was falling.