CHAPTER 12
Night fell over Talcana, cloaking the city in darkness like an ink-colored shroud.
The palace towers rose into the darkness, their spires cutting sharp silhouettes against the moonlit sky.
Lanterns burned low along the outer walls, casting thin ribbons of gold across stone pathways where guards paced in slow, predictable patterns.
The air was cool, quiet, and thick with a silence that made every sound seem louder than it actually was.
Faelith moved through it like a shadow.
She wore black from head to boot—cloth fitted close to her body, a hood drawn low over her brow, and a strip of dark fabric concealing the lower half of her face.
Only her eyes remained visible, sharp and watchful beneath the moonlight.
Her steps were silent, her breath controlled, her presence barely more than a ripple in the darkness.
Ashendir followed a few paces behind, equally concealed, equally silent.
Two of her guards flanked them, their movements fluid and precise.
All four had trained in the forests— difficult terrain built their speed, balance, and the art of moving unseen.
Tonight, they carried themselves like figures from forgotten legends.
Faelith paused beneath the shadow of a tall archway.
A guard patrol passed below a flight of stairs, lanterns swaying in their hands. Their boots struck the stone in steady rhythm, echoing faintly through the courtyard. Faelith watched their pattern, memorizing the timing, the angles, the blind spots.
When the last lantern dipped out of sight, she moved.
Her hands found the rough edge of the wall.
With a swift, practiced motion, she scaled upward, her body rising with the effortless grace of someone who had been climbing more than half her lifespan.
Ashendir followed, his motions smooth, his boots barely touching the stone.
The two guards ascended beside them, their silhouettes merging with the darkness.
They reached the rooftop in silence.
Faelith crouched low, her cloak settling around her like a pool of shadow.
The palace stretched before them—rooftops sloping gently, chimneys rising like watchful sentinels, narrow bridges connecting towers in delicate arcs.
The Archives lay on the far side of the complex, its domed roof barely visible beyond the maze of structures.
Ashendir pointed toward a narrow ridge. “We take the high path.”
Faelith nodded.
They ran.
Their steps were light, barely touching the tiles.
Cloaks fluttered behind them like dark wings.
They moved with the speed and precision of dancers, leaping narrow gaps, balancing along thin ridges, slipping behind chimneys whenever a lantern glow swept too close.
The rooftops became a path only elves could navigate—too narrow, too steep, too treacherous for human guards.
Below, patrols continued their slow march, unaware of the shadows racing above them.
Faelith felt the night air cool against her facecloth. Her pulse steadied. Her senses sharpened. Every rooftop, every ledge, every flicker of torchlight became part of a map she read instinctively.
They reached a slanted roof overlooking the Archives courtyard.
Faelith dropped and slid to the edge, her eyes narrowing. She studied the courtyard below; only two guards patrolled the outer path, their lanterns dim, their pace slow. No additional sentries. No watchers on the rooflines. No sign of alarm.
She nodded to her men without a second thought; the three split, each going a different direction to scout out any potential dangers or visitors.
Faelith waited until they vanished into the night.
Then she slipped down the slanted roof, her boots barely whispering against the tiles. She dropped to a narrow balcony of the Archives.
She approached the entrance; the one rarely used, as the hinges protested as she slowly pried it open.
The door was cracked.
Faelith froze.
A thin line of warm light spilled across the opening from the inside.
She slid closer, her breath silent and steady, her hand drifting toward the dagger at her hip. She leaned just enough to peer through the gap.
A single candle burned somewhere deeper in the room.
Its flame flickered gently, throwing long shadows across shelves of scrolls and ancient tomes.
Someone had been here.
Someone waiting for Faelith to show.
Seeing no one in the current vicinity, Faelith opened the door wide enough for her to slip in and quietly shut the door behind her.
Rows of towering shelves stretched into the darkness as she made her way inside, their shadows long and unmoving.
The candle continued to illuminate the dark space; its flame flickered on a desk , casting a mellow, trembling glimmer over the nearest rack of scrolls. Someone had lit it recently. The wax and wick barely lit for 15 minutes.
Faelith moved toward it, her steps silent, her cloak brushing silently against the stone floor. She kept low, her eyes scanning the aisles for movement. No footsteps. No breathing. No sudden movements.
The constant remained the silence, and the candle that burned steadily.
She reached the rack beside it.
Scrolls and bound correspondences filled the shelves—some sealed, some frayed with age. Faelith’s fingers skimmed the edges, searching for anything out of place. A crease in the dust grabbed her attention: a small stack of letters recently disturbed, as though purposely placed there.
She pulled them free.
The top parchment bore a familiar name.
Councilor Vaelcourt.
Her mother’s handwriting—elegant, sharp, unmistakable—stretched across the page. Faelith’s breath tightened. She unfolded the letter carefully, her gloved fingers trembling despite her control.
The ink was faded yet legible.
Melisandre,
The relic must remain hidden. Its power is older and more dangerous than anyone can understand. If they discover what it can awaken, our world would fracture.
—Rena
Faelith’s pulse accelerated.
She sifted through the stack, finding more correspondences—exchanges between her mother and Lady Vaelcourt spanning months, perhaps years. Some served as warnings. Some were updates. Some were desperate pleas for secrecy.
One letter contained a sketch.
Faelith held it up to the candlelight.
An amulet—circular, etched with ancient elven script, Vaelcourt had drawn symbols—sigils of long-lost prophecies, markings Faelith had only ever noticed in the old books in Mist Haven.
Another page contained fragmented text:
A bearer of the bloodline shall stand before the Old God. The Sword will strike the ancient one down, or the world shall suffer beneath the First Hunger. All fate rests in the Fire’s choice.
Faelith’s mind stilled.
This was the secret Vaelcourt was protecting?
Her mother had been helping her.
And someone in the capital was willing to kill for it.
Faelith gathered the letters into a tight stack, sliding them beneath her cloak for later. The candle’s flame trembled as if sensing her urgency. A faint sound drifted up from the lower floor. A deliberate shift of weight. A breath between and then the sound of an ink jar rattling.
She extinguished the candle with two fingers. Darkness folded over her like a second cloak.
Her dagger slid free of its sheath. The metal felt cold and familiar in her hand.
She moved deeper into the stacks, her steps light, her body low.
The shelves towered around her, casting long shadows that turned the Archives into a maze of narrow aisles and blind corners.
The air was tinged with the musty scent of old parchment, mingling with a faint trace of wild rosemary used for preservation.
Somewhere distant, a magical glyph on an open tome faintly glowed with blue light, humming beneath the silence like a heartbeat.
An occasional glimmer rippled across the floor where protective wards shimmered, responding to her presence.
Faelith paused, listening as the distant creak of settling timbers mingled with the almost inaudible whisper of enchanted scrolls rearranging themselves within their cases.
Another sound.
A footstep.
Slow. Heavy.
Not the sound of Ashendir or one of her other men.
Perhaps a guard?
Faelith inhaled once, steadying her breath. Her body shifted to center her weight. Her stance softened. Her movements became fluid, ready to flow around any strike.
A silhouette appeared at the end of the aisle.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Controlled.
Faelith took the chance of ambushing the intruder.
The stranger met her halfway. Their arm swept up, blocking her strike with brute force. The impact jolted her wrist. She twisted, redirecting the momentum, slicing toward their ribs. The stranger pivoted, catching her forearm and shoving her back with a strength that felt like stone.
Faelith slid across the floor, absorbing the force, letting it carry her into a low spin. She rose in a single breath, dagger flashing. The stranger advanced, steps heavy, grounded, each movement compact and efficient.
They fought in near silence.
Faelith’s strikes were quick, precise, flowing from one form to the next.
She moved like water, slipping around the stranger’s defenses, aiming for joints, tendons, openings.
The stranger countered with raw strength, blocking her blade with forearms, shoulders, even the flat of a hand.
Their style was not elegant. It was survival. It was force.
A small shelf rattled behind them as one of them stepped on a loose floorboard.
Faelith leapt onto a lower beam, using it as a springboard. She flipped over the stranger, landing behind them with barely a sound. Her dagger swept toward their back.
The stranger spun, catching her wrist mid-strike. Their grip tightened. Faelith felt her bones protest. She dropped her weight, twisting free, slicing upward. The blade grazed the stranger’s shoulder.
A sharp breath escaped them.
They did not cry out.