Moonlight poured through the sanctuary's stained glass windows as Seraphine stood in the archway of Alaric's study, her fingers curled tightly around the ancient scroll. The air was heavy, thick with unspoken dread.
He looked up, the moment he felt her presence—eyes soft, glowing with residual warmth from their recent peace. But the moment he saw the look on her face, his posture stiffened.
"Seraphine?" he asked, rising slowly. "What is it?"
She stepped forward, laying the scroll on his table. The black-eyed seal of the Council. Opened. Violated. Revealing truths never meant to see light again.
"Tell me about Sylvanna," she said, her voice low. Controlled. "Your aunt. The last princess of the Elves."
Alaric's eyes darkened instantly.
"That name…" He swallowed. "Why are you asking about her?"
"Because I know she didn't die of illness as the stories say," Seraphine snapped, placing the portrait of a young boy beside the scroll. "She was murdered. By him."
Alaric's jaw clenched.
"Marlik."
She nodded. "He was one of the Beurie. A soul-binder. He tried to bind himself to Sylvanna. To steal her power, her body. And he failed. That's why he was imprisoned. That's why the Council buried the truth."
Alaric stood in silence. The weight of decades pressing on his shoulders.
"I didn't know the full truth," he whispered. "Only fragments. Whispers from my father and brother. Sylvanna… she was my guide, my teacher, my second mother. She vanished before I was fully grown. I was told she succumbed to a ritual gone wrong."
Seraphine reached for his hand.
"Alaric, we need answers. Real ones. From someone who was there."
Alaric met her gaze. Then nodded.
"Then we go to meet my parents again."
---
Later that night,
The gates of Vaelthorne Manor stood like silver trees under the starlit sky, twinkling and ancient. They opened at the scent of Alaric's blood, and the guards bowed low as he and Seraphine stepped inside.
Waiting for them under the great oaken archway was Lord Vaelthorne, Alaric's Father—regal and composed, eyes ancient with sorrow.
"Father," he said solemnly. "It has been too long."
"Too long, and not long enough," Alaric replied with a hint of frost. "We're not here for pleasantries."
Lord Vaelthorne's expression remained unreadable. "You want to know the truth about Sylvanna."
Seraphine stepped forward. "We know she was killed by Malrik. That he tried to bind her soul. But why hide it? Why not destroy him then and there?"
Lord Vaelthorne sighed, gesturing them to follow.
He led them into a sealed chamber beneath the manor—lined with runes and enchanted with ancestral magic. At the center lay a single glass casket.
Inside it, the preserved body of Princess Sylvanna Vaelthorne. Ethereal. Unaging. As if asleep.
Seraphine gasped.
"She's… still intact."
"Because her soul was never freed," Lord Vaelthorne whispered. "Marlik did not bind it. But he damaged it. Sylvanna exists in a state between life and death—trapped in stasis. If her soul were to return, her body might awaken."
Alaric stared at his aunt's serene face, grief filling his eyes.
Lord Vaelthorne looked at them both gravely.
"The reason we sealed the truth was not out of cowardice—but fear. The Beurie line, though destroyed, left behind seeds. Malrik was too dangerous to execute. His soul-bonding magic made him nearly immortal—if killed, he would only return in another body."
Seraphine's voice trembled. "That's why he wants Caelum."
Lord Vaelthorne nodded. "Caelum's blood is pure. A perfect vessel—blessed by vampire, witch, lycan… and elf. Malrik has waited for centuries for such a host."
Silence fell.
Alaric stepped closer to the casket, his expression steel.
"Then we'll awaken her," he said. "And end what was started."
Lord Vaelthorne's eyes widened. "You would risk her soul fracturing beyond repair?"
"If it means saving my son," Alaric said, "yes."
Seraphine reached for his hand. "We're with you. All of us."
The chamber pulsed faintly, a wind rising from nowhere.
And for the first time in centuries… Sylvanna's fingers moved.
The underground chamber was still as a tomb.
Not even the wind dared to whisper. The air was laced with ancient magic—wards etched in silver, runes humming faintly, guarding a secret that had long slumbered beneath the Vaelthorne manor.
And yet… today, something was different.
Little footsteps echoed in the corridor. Soft, almost hesitant. But steady. Determined.
Caelum.
He walked slowly into the sacred chamber, guided only by instinct. No one told him to come. No one knew he had left his room. But something—someone—had called to him in a dream.
He didn't knock. He didn't ask.
He simply knew.
The chamber's heavy doors parted for him like mist, and inside, the silver casket glowed faintly beneath a protective enchantment.
A woman—beautiful, ethereal, serene—lay asleep, untouched by time.
"Grand Aunt Sylvanna," Caelum whispered, the words strange on his tongue but familiar in his soul.
He approached, a warmth building in his chest, an ache behind his ribs. His hand, small and trembling, reached toward the casket.
And then—
A surge of light.
The runes on the walls flared in response to his presence, the silver symbols burning gold. The air grew thick with energy, and the enchantments that had held for over a century began to crack.
Caelum blinked, fear flashing in his eyes, but his feet would not move. The casket pulsed as if breathing—reacting.
Then… a whisper.
A voice, gentle and melodic, echoed in the chamber. "Blood of my blood…"
The glow intensified. Caelum gasped as his fingertips brushed the surface of the glass—and suddenly, a thread of golden light connected his heart to hers.
Ancestral magic. Elven kin-soul resonance.
The ancient spell locking her in stasis recognized him. Not just as a relative… but as an heir of the royal line. One powerful enough to unseal the bond.
Sylvanna's fingers twitched.
Then her eyes opened—silver like the moon, wide and glistening, as if seeing the world for the first time in centuries.
"W-Where…" she breathed, voice hoarse, and turned her head to the small boy standing beside her.
Caelum stared, his own heart thudding in his chest. "You're awake," he whispered, blinking back tears. "I… I felt you."
Sylvanna sat up slowly, her hair cascading like woven light, gaze transfixed on the child before her.
"You are… Alaric's son," she said in awe. "And Karena's soul… lives in her."
Caelum nodded shyly, biting his lip. "They're my parents. I'm Caelum."
Tears slid down Sylvanna's cheeks. She reached out, cupping his face gently.
"Oh, my stars… you're more than they dreamed. You're the light… we all waited for."
Suddenly, the chamber doors burst open—Alaric and Seraphine rushed inside, alarms ringing from the awakening of the ancient spell.
But they froze.
Sylvanna was awake. Sitting up. Holding their son.
Alaric's knees nearly buckled at the sight.
"Aunt Sylvanna…" he whispered.
She looked at him, her smile soft.
"Hello, little nephew."