Page 71

The Memory That Burns

T he passage leading into the tower curved tightly, ascending in a spiral of uneven stone steps that groaned beneath our weight. The deeper we went, the thicker the air became—charged with an energy that prickled along my skin like static.

The walls narrowed around us, the staircase coiling like a serpent as it climbed the inside of the tower’s fractured shell. No windows. No light. Only the sound of our breath, our steps, the occasional scatter of dust as ancient stone flaked from the walls above.

Every footstep echoed like it didn’t belong.

Lydia whispered a faint Lucenara , casting a soft orb of light ahead of us. The spell barely reached ten feet, the darkness swallowing the rest, and still—we climbed.

Samael kept close, his fingers brushing my arm once in a while to make sure I was still there.

No one spoke. There were no jokes from Bethany, no clever jabs from Leander. The climb stripped the noise from our thoughts, left only the rhythmic pulse of anticipation in our chests.

At last, the stairway ended.

A narrow landing opened into the top of the tower. The chamber beyond was circular and tall, its roof long since collapsed in places, letting moonlight filter through in fractured shafts that painted the floor in silver and shadow.

Vines had found their way in long ago, coiling down the exposed stone, framing the room like skeletal drapery. Dust hung in the air, swirling in the faint breeze, and every surface was covered in a fine layer of time.

In the center of the room, untouched, was a raised pedestal.

Upon it, a sealed stone case.

The air pulsed the moment we stepped inside—soft and low, like the beat of a heart deep underground. It was as if the tower recognized us. Or perhaps—it remembered my ancestors.

I approached slowly, my fingers brushing the stone pedestal. Runes were etched along the edge—ancient Vale script, curling in symbols I half-recognized from Cordelia’s journal.

My heart was thudding now, each beat louder than the last.

Samael moved to my side, gaze fixed on the lock that bound the case closed—no keyhole, no hinge, only a single line of embedded metal shaped like a serpent eating its own tail.

“Ouroboros sigil,” he murmured. “Magic-sealed. Old magic.”

“Can you open it?” Lydia asked.

Samael nodded slowly, lifting his hand. “Give me a moment.”

He stepped forward and placed both palms on the surface of the case, whispering under his breath. The runes on his forearms shimmered faintly, responding to the call of the seal.

Fractura Sigillum , he intoned.

The lock glowed red, then purple, then silver—

—before splitting apart with a sound like cracking ice.

A soft hiss escaped as the lid creaked open, the final enchantment dissolving into the air like mist at dawn.

Inside—

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Resting on a dark velvet lining, surrounded by a faint halo of light, was the relic.

Oblivion’s Embrace.

An oval black crystal, no larger than a clenched fist, cradled within a delicate silver setting that had tarnished with age, but the amulet itself—it shimmered.

Its surface was impossibly smooth and reflective, like darkened glass polished by centuries of silence. But beneath that glass—something moved.

A vortex.

It swirled slowly, endlessly, like a storm trapped behind the veil of the material world.

A whirlpool of shadows, turning in on itself, pulling at the edges of the light in the room.

The longer I looked at it, the more it seemed to pull at something deeper than sight—like it wasn’t just absorbing light, but memory—soul—self.

My breath hitched.

Lydia drew in close beside me, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s beautiful.”

Samael didn’t respond. He stood completely still, eyes fixed on the relic, his jaw clenched.

I didn’t need the Raven’s Echo to tell me this artifact was dangerous. Its presence rippled with latent energy—power. Power that offered protection—but at a price.

The shifting patterns within the crystal moved like oil on water, mimicking the ebb and flow of unseen energies. I could feel it vibrating through the pedestal, humming along my bones, speaking to something quiet and hidden within me.

Bethany whispered, “What does it do?”

I swallowed, forcing my voice to stay steady. “It’s a reflective shield. It absorbs magic—any spell cast against the wearer—and turns it back. Stronger. Sharper. It makes your enemy’s strength your weapon.”

Leander stepped forward, narrowing his eyes. “And what’s the cost?”

I met his gaze. “Each time it’s used—it takes something.”

“Like what?”

“A memory,” I said. “The happiest ones. It erases them. Slowly. Until you forget what you’re fighting for. Who you are. Who you love.”

Silence fell again, thick as velvet.

Samael moved first, stepping forward until he stood at the edge of the pedestal. “That’s why it was locked away. Not because of what it can’t do. Because of what it will do.”

He looked at me then, and for the first time in hours, his expression wasn’t guarded—it was open. Wary. A warning and a plea all at once.

I didn’t hesitate.

I reached out with both hands and lifted Oblivion’s Embrace from its cradle.

The crystal was warm—unnaturally so. My breath caught in my chest the moment my fingers wrapped around it.

The swirling vortex at its center seemed to pulse with new life, spinning faster as if responding to the beat of my heart.

My vision dimmed at the edges for the briefest of seconds, and something inside me shifted—like stepping into icy water. It was a feeling I knew.

The first time I held the Raven’s Echo—I had felt the same.

A relic that whispered.

A relic that remembered.

I stared into the dark gleam of the amulet, mesmerized by the way it bent the light—how the shadows inside twisted and danced.

So beautiful. So dangerous. It was almost seductive, the hum of power just beneath the surface.

There was something else there, too. A sadness.

A deep, aching sorrow buried in its magic, like it grieved what it had taken.

I lowered it carefully, my voice soft. “It feels—like grief.”

No one spoke.

Then Bethany broke the silence, her voice unsteady. “We can’t keep it.”

“We can’t leave it,” Leander shot back. “What if someone else finds it? Someone worse?”

“What if it corrupts us?” Bethany replied. “You felt it. You all did. That’s not a relic meant for human hands.”

“It was made for human hands,” Lydia said, quietly. “By Imogen. By Elsbeth. The Vale sisters created this for a reason.”

“To fight,” Samael said darkly. “To survive.”

“To sacrifice,” I whispered, the weight of the relic heavy in my palm. “Cordelia knew what it would cost. I believe it was her who left the letter in the library. She wanted her daughter to continue when she no longer could.”

Lydia glanced upward, her brows furrowed. “How can we destroy it?”

I looked around at them all, the words I’d buried finally clawing their way out.

“I didn’t tell you before,” I began. “Because I didn’t know how. Or if I was supposed to. But a few nights ago—I received a message. A Raven. I followed it to the library and found Professor Crowe.”

“You met with him alone?” Leander’s voice was sharp.

“He asked for me alone,” I said. “He’s blind, but he sees more than anyone else in that place. He told me things—about the portals. About Cordelia. About me.”

Samael stepped closer, his eyes searching mine. “What kind of things?”

“That Olivia Fairweather wasn’t supposed to die. That whoever killed her thought it was me they were following that night. That I’m walking the path Cordelia began.”

They all stilled.

The weight of what I’d said settled over the room like a heavy curtain, draping across every breath.

I swallowed hard, my grip tightening around the relic. “That letter I found in the library,” I continued.

“Cordelia’s Letter. The writing was almost gone, faded into the paper, but it was clear enough to read. She said they needed to be destroyed.”

Bethany nodded slowly, her expression pinched with unease. “How, Elle? We know nothing about these relics.”

Lydia crossed her arms. “Or whether the destruction of one would unleash something we can’t contain.”

“She knew,” I whispered. “Cordelia knew what she was doing when she left that letter. And Professor Crowe—I think he’s the only one who understands how all of this fits together.”

Samael’s brows furrowed. “You trust him that much?”

“I do,” I said without hesitation. “He sees more than he lets on. When I met him in the library, he told me that what I was looking for wasn’t there—that I already knew where to find it. That I’d stood on the edge of it before. He was talking about the corridor.”

Lydia blinked. “That was before you saw it again outside the ballroom?”

I nodded. “He didn’t tell me outright. He doesn’t tell. He nudges. Hints. Everything he’s said has led me here.”

I turned to face them all, trying to find the right words.

“Cordelia left behind breadcrumbs because she couldn’t finish this. She needed someone else to. Crowe believes I’m that someone. He believes I was meant to walk this path.”

Leander stepped forward, his arms loosely folded, but the sharpness in his gaze had softened. “You really believe he’ll know what to do with this thing?”

“I believe,” I said, holding the relic out slightly, “that if there’s anyone who knows how to destroy it—safely—it’s him. Or at least, he’ll tell us if it’s even possible. If we destroy it wrong—we don’t know what might happen.”

The swirling vortex inside the amulet pulsed faintly at my words. It seemed to hum in my palm, as if aware of its fate being debated.

Bethany rubbed her arms, shivering despite the warm air in the tower. “I don’t like the idea of taking this back to the Academy. What if something senses it?”

“It already knows,” Samael said, his voice low. “The moment Elvana picked it up, that pulse… it wasn’t just the magic settling. It was a beacon.”