The library inside the Shadow Hall wasn't made of stone and wood—it was carved from obsidian and memory. Shelves stretched into impossible dimensions, some filled with books, others with glowing orbs that pulsed with preserved knowledge. Elara stood at the heart of it, arms crossed, staring at the sigil burned into her chest.
The seal no longer just shimmered—it shifted, like a constellation, realigning itself every time she felt something new.
"You didn't just bind me," she said as Aldric joined her. "You awakened something that already belonged to me."
"Yes," he admitted. "And I didn't tell you. Because I didn't want you to become what they feared."
"The First Circle."
He nodded. "Thirteen bloodlines, each marked by moonlight and shadow. Each capable of sealing—or unleashing—the Heralds. Your ancestors were the Scribes. Record keepers. Oracles. They didn't fight with blades. They fought with truth."
Elara approached one of the floating tomes. It flipped open at her touch, revealing a crest she recognized from her father's old journals: a silver crescent split by a feathered quill.
"My father knew," she whispered.
"He suspected," Aldric said. "He never activated it. That was your choice."
She looked up. "And now I have to use it."