Chapter Four
Beware the ones the world ignores
Forgotten girls still open doors
Seren Calvatere is a witch.
A bridge between worlds, places, people.
But for her entire life until now, she’s been a sheltered girl with her nose in books. Lost in the ink-stained margins of hypotheticals and far off places. Never reality. Never her reality. And now? She’s holding open a Gateway that bridges Kryntar and Elarion.
She allows magic to move through her—a conduit. She draws it from the air itself, from the vines that hang in a curtain over the war room’s window, from her friends and their magic, and waits until the last boot disappears into the void.
Then she follows.
Seren lets the Gateway collapse behind her with a soft exhale, the Threads unraveling from her fingers like silk slipping free.
Nymeris smells different. Not of rot or desperation or smoke like Virellin.
Not of blooming florals or petrichor or crisp jungle air like Kryntar.
But parchment and ink and living things.
Stone warmed by sun. Old paper. Green growing where it has always been allowed to grow without containment.
The city hums with the quiet confidence of a place that knows exactly what it is.
And Seren wants that.
Not the city—but the certainty it carries.
She swallows.
If anywhere could have claimed her—truly claimed her—it would have been somewhere like this.
Elarion rises around them in pale tiers and arched walkways, libraries stacked atop one another like offerings instead of fortresses. Knowledge here is not hoarded. It is displayed. Shared. Trusted.
Seren has spent her life believing herself small because the world treated her as disposable. Or at worst, invisible. It was a life on the Flesh Circuit, hidden in Revryn’s loft, blending into the shadows. But here, she feels seen, and the realization terrifies her.
It makes her question whether what she had was enough—or just all she ever knew. Because if she belongs here… then what does that say about where she comes from?
Where she comes from. The thought rises unprompted.
She tries to shove it away before it can land, but it snags on fragments of curiosity and stays. Unwanted, but it stays. Like she’s been waiting for the question.
Because if Seren really is a full-blooded witch, then who in the Stars are her parents? Where is she really from?
For Seren, this is not about family. It’s a matter of blood. Of truth. Of origin.
She has never truly felt that. Not safely. Not completely. This isn’t about being a witch. It’s about knowing who she is.
The cobbled streets of Elarion’s city blur beneath her as she keeps stride with Teddy, but her gaze is pinned on Ronyn and Elyssara, leading the group toward Queen Ilyra’s castle. Her siblings in every way that counts.
But beyond the love and affection, there is a deeper truth that refuses to submit: she has been a burden. She has been tolerated.
Kept. Protected.
But never chosen first.
They’ve protected her, fed her, stole for her, shielded her—yes. But respect? Well, that is yet to be seen.
Seren lifts her chin just a fraction higher. This isn’t just about saving the realms. It’s about finding her people. Herself.
And maybe, it’s about proving her value. Not to them, but to herself.
“You are lost within yourself, Seren,” Teddy breathes, startling her. He leans into her, half-nudging, burnished bronze eyes finding hers.
Seren angles her face to him, tipping it all the way back to meet his gaze. Teddy towers over her. All lean muscle and a warrior’s frame casting a shadow over Seren’s petite stature.
She notices the way he tries to soften his gaze, to force his worry into hiding beneath an easy smile. But Seren misses nothing. Not a stray expression, not a rehearsed tone… nothing.
“I am,” she concedes. “There’s a lot at stake.”
But Teddy’s no fool. “I am not so easily convinced that you’re being truthful. You raise your eyebrows just a fraction when you lie, Seri.”
Of course he notices. He always does.
He flashes that easy smile again.
Fucking Aetherstrides.
“It’s much easier to lie to Ronyn, you know,” she grouses, though she huffs a laugh.
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Seri. Ronyn is the one who told me to check on you,” Teddy says, face full of cheek.
That wily bastard.
He sees more than he lets on. More than anyone gives him credit for. Not that it surprises her. Beneath his insufferable and cavalier charm, Ronyn is a master of manipulation. For the better. Always knowing what the room needs—levity, vulnerability, charm, recklessness.
He passes it off as comedy, but she knows it for what it really is: deep, real love. Buried beneath performance. A mask.
And beneath that mask, there is a man she barely knows.
She looses a long, loud exhale.
“I want to belong, Teddy. Truly belong. Mavyrn spoke of witches long before I knew I was one—I think she was leaving me clues. And then her dying words: Find Lara. Something inside of me—an instinct, a knowing—believes they’re connected,” she whispers, though there’s no mistaking her desperation.
“I need to know who I am, Teddy. Because this world…” she gestures around them.
“It’s not mine. No matter how much I wish it was. ”
Because if she doesn’t know who she is, she’ll spend her life mistaking what she was given for what she was meant for.
Teddy doesn’t respond straight away. His gaze turns distant, contemplative.
But it snaps back to her in less than a heartbeat, and there’s a heaviness there. A layered, complex thing that Seren can’t place.
Is it grief? Guilt? The look of a man who feels he’s betraying his wife and the mother of his Star-sent child?
But Teddy doesn’t explain.
His hand finds hers, halting to a stop between stores of quills and leatherbound journals. He splays her palm across his chest plate. His heart.
“Where you belong, I belong,” he promises, but the words are strained, rasping. Like every syllable pulls against an oath he has not yet broken. “We’ll find Lara.”
He says it like every word demands a sacrifice she doesn’t yet understand. He doesn’t linger. Simply releases her hand with a chaste kiss to her fingers, and Seren already misses the weight of his hand against hers. He spins on his heel to the only side he’s ever really been at: Kael’s.
And despite the conflicting emotions that she can’t unsee, no matter how many times she’s tried—her heart swells at his promise.
Chosen.
Even if the choice feels fragile, tentative.
Her eyes linger on Teddy, and she doesn’t miss the way he’s been keeping a closer watch on Kael over the last couple of weeks.
The way he barely leaves his side. The way he holds his breath just a little tighter in his presence.
The way he lingers in front of the fire with a glass of amber liquor until Kael turns in first.
Which means she’s not the only one who’s noticed: Kael is different.
Not just the grief. Something… else.
Elarion Castle rises before them, elegant and awesome in its beauty. Cradled by the mountain and hovering above the city proper, the castle makes a statement: beauty has a place here.
Rocky tracks follow the arc of the sun as it rises to its peak, and the group walks in easy silence until a small Shade in gray robes appears without a sound from around the brush. “Elandor awaits,” he whispers, as if afraid he’ll unsettle the insects by speaking louder.
Teddy doesn’t flinch—he heard the Shade long before he revealed himself.
“Take us to him,” Kael snaps brusquely, and his tone sets Seren on edge. Not because he’s direct—he always is. But because Kael is astute at court-trained manners and politics, and whatever this is… it’s not him.
Elyssara and Teddy exchange a brief glance, but Seren notices too.
This isn’t right.
And she trusts that instinct more than she trusts anything else.
The Shade turns without waiting, gray robes whispering over stone as he leads them through a narrow archway carved with runes. Some Seren recognizes, and others she doesn’t. The air changes as they pass beneath it. Cooler. Thicker. As if knowledge itself has weight here.
This time, there is no dawn meal with the queen.
No cinnamon-dusted pastries or spiced wine.
No honeyed light illuminating the terrace or courtyard.
This time, the Shade bypasses courtly manners altogether and pays the customs of Elarion Castle no heed, by striding directly through the castle’s winding halls until limestone and cascading falls give way to the familiar aroma of old parchment and blotted ink.
Bliss.
Shelves rise along the curved walls, stacked high with scrolls and tomes, ladders crisscrossing the space like veins. Light spills in from high, narrow windows, catching dust motes mid-fall.
Seren’s breath stutters. Like she’s standing on the edge of something she’s been searching for her entire life.
“Ah,” a voice says mildly, somewhere above them. “You’re early. Or late. Time gets muddled when people arrive carrying fate.”
Elandor’s hawkish nose appears over the banister, those same spectacles balancing precariously on the tip, and another pair nestled in the craze of his frazzled gray hair shooting up at odd angles.
But Seren doesn’t care about appearance. Not when his mind is the true spectacle. A keeper of knowledge. No—truth. An Archivist. An acolyte of history, of information. And maybe the one person in the Known Realms who can actually tell her the truth of her origins. Her story. Her.
Seren’s face splits into a wide smile.
This is it.
Or the closest she has ever come.
Elandor shuttles down the stairs toward the group, gripping the banister like it’s the only thing keeping him up.
Elyssara ascends the staircase to meet him.
“Elandor,” she beams fondly.
“Well, if it isn’t the Rightful Queen of Dravara and her Fallen,” Elandor announces, throwing an arm out in a flourish and himself off kilter in the same breath, stumbling down a step.
Elyssara reacts swiftly, a huff of laughter escaping her. “No need for the titles, Elandor. Please,” she begs gently. But her face shifts, tilting on an angle. Curious. “And… what did you call us? The Fallen?”
Elyssara hooks her arm in his, steadying him back up the stairs.
“Ah yes. Some things make sense immediately, requiring no context. And other things, well… they need context. Don’t they? Such is the power of good communication—a thing to master, to be sure,” he bumbles, scratching his head with the tip of his quill.
The others stifle their laughter, but Ronyn joins in.
Of course he does.
“You know what they say: nothing like a good bit of context,” he jests sarcastically.
But Elandor spins on him. “Exactly! My word, the reports say that you’re quick as a whip… quite right.”
Ronyn puffs out his chest, nudging Seren in the ribs. “Hear that? Quick as a whip. Look out or I might take your place as the clever one.”
Seren shakes her head, shoving down a laugh. “I think you forgot about context, Ronie. If women, a tavern, or food are involved, your cleverness isn’t.”
Seren struts away like she’s won, leaving Ronyn stationary on the staircase.
“I’d argue that point, but I’m too clever. A clever man knows when to concede. I submit, my lady,” he says in mock defeat, dropping to one knee and hanging his head.
Seren giggles this time.
Teddy’s mouth kicks up at the side, though his attention appears to be on the conversation.
But Seren notices. She notices the way he imbibes her laughter every time.
The way it soothes something ruinous inside him.
So she keeps going. Uninhibited. Letting it echo through the great halls like a note held just a little longer than necessary.
And with that, Teddy’s eyes close. She’s seen him do this before—heighten specific senses by blocking out others. Aetherstride in action.
She bounds up the stairs two at a time to catch up, but she hasn’t missed a thing. Elandor is still speaking in riddles.
Seren clears her throat.
“You were saying something about the Fallen, Elandor?”
Elandor startles for a heartbeat.
“I was? Yes. I was. We’ve taken to calling you the Fallen. The scholars here, I mean. We like to do this when recording history. All realm-changing groups of people have a name, you see,” he explains, still gripping Elyssara’s arm.
Realm-changing groups of people.
The words don’t feel like they belong to her. Not yet. They settle in Seren’s belly. Real and true and entirely unfamiliar.
Elandor’s gaze settles on Seren. Holding for one heartbeat. Two. Then pans across the group.
“Elyssara may be the prophesied one, but all of you,” he drags a gnarled finger across the group, “you are destined. You have found each other, despite your pain and allegiances. And you have forged a bond.”
He leans into the heavy door to his study, but it barely budges.
Kael steps in, brows still pinched together, and holds it open with little effort.
“You have all fallen—Ronyn and Seren, from families who would not or could not have you. Therion, from a family who were taken too soon. Kael, from a kingdom who turned their backs on you when it mattered most. Jax, from a poor excuse for love that doomed us all.” Elandor hobbles through the door, scraping a chair across the floor to sit down. “Rubi, from sobriety, of course.”
She shrugs, lifting her flask in mock salute.
Elandor’s eyes drag across the group once more, his expression more weighted and serious than ever before. “You are the Fallen. Destined to bring Elyssara’s prophecy to life. You are the ones who will remake the Known Realms.”
The room stills. As if something larger than them just settled into place.
The Fallen.
The words reverberate through Seren’s skull. Because it strikes her: maybe she was being chosen all along?
Not from her father who would have her sold and discarded.
Not from her mother who didn’t object or repent.
Not chosen despite everything she has been, but because of it.
And maybe… chosen by the Stars themselves.