Chapter Forty-Three
ELYSSARA
Syphra and I stare at each other, gazes locked. Her honey-brown eyes bore into mine, steady, assessing—not as a challenge, but as something older, weightier. I should feel intimidated. Instead, I feel seen. Respected. Awed.
I force myself to break her stare, turning instead to Seren. “What does that mean? What do I do with that?” I aim for curiosity, but my voice betrays me, coming out high, frayed at the edges—raw.
Syphra doesn’t hesitate. She reaches once more for the stone tablet and ink, her fingers moving with purpose. Symbols flow from her hand in swift, confident strokes, ancient runes forming at a cadence I can barely track.
Seren watches, eyes flicking rapidly over the symbols, lips parting as understanding dawns.
“We were separated from our kin when The Shadow Wastes were cursed and The Joining was formed—it fractured the continent.” Her voice is softer now, reverent.
“We must be reunited with our sister tribe. You must bring them home—to the mountains.”
Her breath hitches. “It is your duty to the Vaythari.”
The words land like a physical blow.
I stagger under the weight of them, shaking my head. “How? How am I supposed to do that? Why me?”
Why me? Why do the prophecies keep calling my name? The mountains? These people? This duty that does not belong to me?
Seren swallows, a flicker of uncertainty flashing across her face before she continues. Her voice is soft, almost hesitant, as she translates more of Syphra’s words.
“Ravira and Halun, goddesses of war and peace, gifted us the compass to find our people—to bring the fallen home.”
The moment stretches, thick with meaning.
Seren’s next words shatter something in me.
“But the compass only activates for Skaedor’s heir—the paragon for war and peace, just as he was.”
She swallows. “It is you. The compass will take you where you need to go—even when you don’t know where that is.”
The air is suddenly too thin.
I am not who they think I am.
I am no one.
My breath comes fast and shallow, my fingers curling tightly into my cloak. The weight of expectation is suffocating, pressing against my chest, threatening to fold my knees.
Syphra shakes her head firmly, rejecting my resistance without needing translation. Her grip tightens on her staff.
And then—she lifts it high and strikes it against the frigid earth.
The sound is like thunder.
“Zhari!”
The word booms through the mountains, resonating off the peaks like a drumbeat.
I flinch, the vibration crawling along my skin.
“Zhari!”
More voices join her.
The warriors slam their staffs against the earth, sending shockwaves of sound through the air.
“Zhari! Zhari! Zhari!”
The chant.
The same one that traveled on the wind before we arrived.
The same one that had settled into my bones, wrapped around my skin like a calling.
I feel it now—a hum beneath my ribs, a pulse that does not belong to me.
My mind fights it.
But my body—
My body responds to it.
A force older than my own will sings inside me, resonating with the deep, rhythmic chant. It knows what I refuse to accept.
That it is mine.
That it is for me.
I don’t realize my hands are trembling until Seren turns to me, her eyes wide with something between awe and certainty.
Slowly, she presses a hand over her heart, and when she speaks, it is barely above a whisper.
“Queen.”