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Eldrion paused, giving her one last measuring look. Then he pushed the doors open.

Anthea paused at the doorway, looking around, drinking in the sight of the dark wooden bookcases towering to the ceiling. The smell of ink and aged parchment lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy scent of plants. Vaelor’s study was, in an unexpected twist, brimming with greenery. Large, fern-like plants were placed with an aesthetic touch everywhere around the room. Strange bright orange flowers that looked like Venus flytraps were neatly placed in a row on a dark brown cabinet. She stepped inside and turned her attention to the two figures in the room.

“It is good to see you alive, Anthea,” Aegonar greeted her with a nod. He was leaning casually against a large mahogany desk overflowing with scrolls and parchments.

She simply arched an eyebrow while crossing her arms.

“We just want to talk,” he said, gesturing to a plush green armchair across from him. “Explain a few things to you.”

“Very well, explain away.” She remained standing.

“Sit down!” Vaelor’s icy eyes were fixed on her from his position on a dark brown canapé.

“No, I think I’ll stand.”

The Nephrite heir’s lips tightened in a barely contained display of annoyance, and his eyes turned toward Eldrion in a silent command. But Aegonar subtly shook his head as if indicating that forcing her would not be a good idea.

Eldrion didn’t move an inch from his spot at the door.

Turning her attention back to Aegonar, Anthea tilted her head slightly. “You had something to explain?”

“Queen Fyralin has already told you a bit about it. A prophecy, if you will,” the Crimson heir began. “The prophecy indicates our houses, the Crimson court and the Nephrite court, must work together. That we must join our alliances to guide you.” Aegonar’s green eyes were fixated on her. “The prophecy is filled with riddles and metaphors, as they often are. However, there is no mistaking its reference to a being from another world, a creature out of place and time. We believe, Anthea, that being is you?—”

“I already know this,” she snapped, cutting him off. “Fyralin told me about it yesterday. Just get to the part where you explain things.”

Vaelor stood up abruptly. “Mind your tongue. When you speak of my mother, you will address her with her proper title,” he warned.

She barely spared him a glance before turning back to Aegonar. “Go on.”

“I was going to explain our reasons for the choices we made . . . Why you were imprisoned here.”

“Spare me your excuses. I have no energy for them.”

Aegonar’s jaw tightened, but whatever he wanted to say, he swallowed it.

“I don’t need to stand here and listen to your justifications,” Anthea continued, “I want to read it—the prophecy. That’s the only thing that interests me now.”

Aegonar clenched his jaw further. He was really making an effort in controlling his temper today. Without another word, he gestured for her to approach the desk. On it lay an ancient parchment with beautifully inscribed words. With a quiet nod from Aegonar, Anthea began to read it:

When the Crimson Gem of Anweya and the Green Gem of Eylina gleam in harmony with the winter moons of the Gray Stone, the hour of trials will be nigh. In the lands of Isluma, where the veil between the mystical and the mundane is but a wisp of morning mist, the wheels of destiny will begin their turn.

Out of the void, from a realm that lies hidden beyond the blanket of known stars, a creature bearing unseen abilities will arrive. A being wrought from the clay of distant stars, a stranger cradled in the arms of the strange.

The Crimson Gem of Anweya, famed for its fiery glow, will find this being amidst the chaos of its existence. Drawn by the stone’s vibrant fire, the creature will follow the warmth of its light.

Next will appear the Green Gem of Eylina, hard as jade, steadfast as the walls of an old cave. With the resilience of the mountain and the persistence of the tides, it will quench the fires of a thousand suns.

Born under the stars of another world, there they find solace in the darkness, and through the thick gloom, they will find the Gray Stone, bringing with it a message from the dark abyss. A word that carries hope, a word that kindles fear, and a word that could turn the tides of the great war.

From there, come the dragons, the fire beings of ancient lore, lured by the rhythm of this world, yet bound in the past, bound in the future, bound to the creature.

Then comes the great war, a war that shall either bathe Isluma in peace or plunge it into a darkness so profound, it could swallow all of existence.

Anthea looked at the aged scroll again, her fingers lightly tracing over the lines.

“The original prophecy,” Aegonar said, leaning over the table as he pointed to a section of the text, “if it was ever written down, has been lost for ages. This version was translated during the first rebellion, almost six hundred years ago, from texts originating from a time during the War of the Races, roughly fifteen hundred years ago.”

“Wait a minute,” Anthea said, holding up a hand. “So, what you’re telling me is that this,” she gestured to the document, “is a translation of a translation?”