CHAPTER 15
Faelith walked barefoot through the forest, each step sending a ripple of sensation through her, equal parts comfort and ache.
The poignant but quiet pull of a memory she had not visited in years drew her deeper with every breath—the kind of longing that pressed just beneath her skin, unwelcome but impossible to ignore.
The world around her shimmered with pale light; it softened edges and made every shape feel half-real.
The trees rose tall and silver-barked, their leaves whispering in a language she had once understood as a child.
With every sigh of wind, she felt both hope and regret twine inside her, a yearning for innocence that sharpened the present moment.
Mist drifted between the roots, cool and luminous, curling around her ankles as she walked.
For an instant, she let herself remember how it felt to belong here, running through these very paths with laughter in her throat and no weight upon her shoulders.
The grove felt untouched by time, suspended in the same stillness it had held when she was young, and yet every detail glimmered now with a bittersweetness she had never known as a child.
She moved deeper into the grove, drawn by a faint sound ahead.
A small figure darted between the trees, quick and bright, her laughter ringing through the air like a chime.
Faelith paused, watching as the child wove through the silver trunks, her dark hair catching the light, her steps light enough to barely disturb the mist. Something in her hands glinted against the light.
The sight struck her with a strange ache, a familiarity that pressed against her heart.
She knew this place. She knew that laugh.
She knew the way the grove seemed to awaken around the child, as though welcoming her.
Another figure emerged from the trees, chasing after the girl with laughter of her own.
Her mother, her movements graceful and sure.
She caught the child easily, lifting her into her arms and spinning her in a fast circle.
The girl’s laughter rose again, bright and unbroken, echoing through the grove until even the leaves seemed to tremble with joy.
Her mother lowered herself to the ground, settling with the child in her lap, cradling her with a tenderness Faelith had not seen since she was small enough to fit in those arms.
Faelith stood still, watching the scene unfold as though she were looking through a window into a life she had lost. The grove felt warmer now, the mist glowing softly around them, the air humming with a quiet magic that belonged only to memory.
Her mother held the child close, brushing a hand along her cheek, whispering something Faelith could not hear.
The girl leaned into her, content and safe as she fiddled with the silver crest of an oak tree, unaware of the world that waited beyond the grove’s borders.
Then her mother looked up.
Her gaze found Faelith across the distance, and the smile on her face faded.
The warmth in the grove dimmed, the mist cooling, the leaves falling silent.
Her mother’s expression shifted, softening with sorrow, sharpening with warning.
She held the child closer, as though shielding her from something unseen.
“Remember,” she said.
The word carried through the grove, quiet but heavy. Faelith felt it wash through her ribs; felt it echo in the places where memory and fear intertwined. Her mother’s eyes held hers, steady and unyielding, as though the entire grove waited for Faelith to understand.
Faelith waited until mid-afternoon to ask Cian for Melisendre’s journal.
She had tried to ignore the pull of her dream, tried to bury the lingering ache it left behind, but something in it gnawed at her with quiet persistence.
She could not shake the feeling that Melisendre’s writings…
Vaelcourt’s writings… might hold something that could spark recognition. A memory. A truth.
When she asked for the journal, Cian did not hesitate.
He retrieved it from beneath a floorboard near his cot, a hiding place chosen with the same caution that shaped every decision he made.
He handed it to her without a word, though his gaze lingered on her for a moment, steady and sure, as though he sensed the weight of what she sought.
Cian had moved into the opposite wing of the residence with Ashendir and the others.
She saw him often now, more than she expected.
Sometimes she found him training alone in the courtyard, his movements sharp and controlled, the air about him taut with focus.
Other times she caught glimpses of him speaking quietly with her guard, his posture steady, his voice low.
She wasn’t sure what they would talk about, but she trusted Cian; if he had meant her harm, Ashendir and the others would have cut him down long ago.
Faelith had gotten so used to his presence; when he was not there, she found herself wondering where he had gone, what he was doing, whether he had found anything that could answer their questions about all of this.
Each time she had to force herself to shake it off and return to the task at hand, whether it was gaining councilors’ support or helping Simon with the minutiae of planning a ball.
Faelith carried the journal into the courtyard.
The cherry blossom tree stood in full bloom, its branches heavy with pale petals that drifted down in soft spirals.
She settled beneath it, letting the shade cool her skin, the quiet settle around her like a gentle blanket.
The journal rested in her lap, its leather worn smooth by years of use.
She traced the cover with her fingertips, feeling the faint grooves of the intricate design.
She opened it.
The pages breathed with age, the ink softened but still clear.
She skimmed the early entries, her attention drifting toward the margins where Melisandre had written in smaller, sharper strokes.
Faelith’s mother had taught her a secret code when she was young, a way of writing meant only for those of their people.
She was a bit taken aback to learn Melisandre learned it as well.
But there it was.
A margin note written in the same slanted script her mother had used. A phrase she recognized instantly.
The Grove is the key.
Faelith’s breath caught. She leaned closer, her pulse quickening as she scanned the page. The main text spoke of elven history, of sacred places, of old rites long abandoned. But the margin note was different. It was personal. Urgent. Hidden.
She turned the page.
Another coded line appeared, tucked between two paragraphs.
The roots carry what we have forgotten.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she traced the ink.
She turned another page.
Her breath stilled.
In the margin, drawn with careful detail, was the silver crest of an oak tree.
The same crest from her dream. The same crest she had held as a child.
The roots spiraled outward like veins. The branches reached upward in a shape that felt almost alive.
She remembered the weight of it in her palm.
She remembered the warmth of it. She remembered her real mother’s voice.
Remember.
She turned the page again, her pulse pounding.
Melisandre had written more in the margins, but these notes were longer, shaped with urgency.
The Silver Grove is the heart of the Lathriel. It is a place woven with ancient magic, where the boundaries between memory and the living world grow thin. All that the Lathriel were, all that they are, is rooted in those silvered branches. Their memory. Their warning. Their inheritance.
Faelith froze.
The Lathriel.
She had not heard that name spoken aloud since she was a child.
It belonged to the oldest elven lineage; the one tied to the grove itself.
A line said to be born from the first roots, from the first breath of magic that shaped the world.
Her mother had whispered the name to her once, telling her it was the bloodline they shared.
A bloodline that carried a history deeper than flesh.
She had not thought of it in years.
She had not dared.
She read on.
Melisandre wrote of the grove as though it were alive, as though it was watching, waiting, as though it remembered every step taken beneath its branches.
She wrote of the Lathriel as guardians… or wardens, as keepers of truths too old for time to remember.
She wrote the crest was a mark, a symbol given only to those who carried the oath of the grove.
Faelith felt her throat tighten.
She remembered holding the crest as a child.
She remembered the grove being alive to every sense.
She turned another page.
Sketches of ancient elven glyphs.
More references to the grove; some of the coded language was jumbled, some lines called it a home… others named it a prison.
Melisandre had written of a prophecy tied to the Lathriel, one that spoke of a bearer who would walk between worlds, between memory and waking life, between the living and the lost. As the last of her people, the grove would call to her. The past would rise up again to greet her.
Faelith closed the journal for a moment, pressing her palm against the cover as she tried to make sense of it all. Cherry blossom petals drifted around her in the calm breeze. The courtyard felt too quiet now, too still, as though the world itself stopped with her.
She opened the journal again and kept reading.
Faelith had been reading for so long that the afternoon light had shifted, turning warm and honey-colored across the courtyard stones.
The cherry blossom tree above her shed petals in slow spirals, each one drifting down like a quiet reminder of the season.The journal lay open across her lap, its pages feeling more alive with each turn, its words whispering secrets she had not expected to find.