Under the guise of research, Julen and Selinne could not find any trace of Caelith or his departure. Still no transfer records, containment orders. No sealed corridors flagged with Caelith’s designation. Even the stabilisation rosters near the outer fracture-line had been scrubbed — names replaced with sigils, rotations anonymised.
“He really has been erased,” Selinne muttered, leaning back against the archive desk in their new meeting spot. “There is no trace of him left.”
Julen rubbed a hand over his face. “Which means he’s either somewhere they don’t log… or somewhere no one is meant to survive.”
Lyra didn’t answer as her heart sank.
She stood at the narrow window cut high into the stone wall, watching the Fracture’s distant glow pulse faintly against the night sky. It had settled into a slow rhythm now — less chaotic than before. Less volatile.
As though it had found equilibrium. Or worse — a keeper.
“We’re chasing shadows,” Selinne went on. “Even if we sneak closer to the outer wards, we won’t know where to look. And even if we went further...”
Lyra looked up, as if an idea sparked.
“Lyra? We can’t just wander toward the Fracture,” Julen said. “The Umbralyns would sense it instantly.”
Lyra pressed her fingers to the glass. The ache in her chest had sharpened into something colder and more focused.
There was a way to know where to look. She just hadn’t figured it out yet.
Later, back in her quarters, Lyra lit a single lamp and pulled her writing slate toward her with a new scroll of parchment. The habit was old now — something she did when the world felt too large to hold in her head alone.
She addressed the letter to her father, though she did not know if she would send it.
Dearest Father,
I’m still here. Still safe — at the moment.
I miss you.
I'm learning a lot. But I'm yet to know what is true and what is not. Lines are... blurring.
But I'm trying, Father. I'm trying to do my best. To do what's right. I no longer know whether the same rules apply to everyone.
Her hand slowed as her eyes stung. She'd been so consumed by Caelith and the Hollow Wraith that she hadn't acknowledged that if what they were guessing about the Umbralyns was true, then she may not see her father again.
The last time she had written like this — truly written — had been weeks ago. Before the pantheon. Before the wraith. Before Caelith had been taken. Time seemed to have gone so fast, yet stood still at the same time.
Write more to him, Caelith had said to her that night. It's good to remember what anchors you.
Her mind went back to when she had stood in his quarters, drawn to him, despite herself. It was one of the first times she had felt that way towards him. But there was something else.
The memory surfaced with startling clarity.
His room had been sparse — functional, disciplined — but that stone had been out of place. Smooth, dark, warm to the touch despite the cold air. She had felt it respond when she picked it up, like a held breath.
It contains memories, he had said.
Not shards or records.
Memories.
Her pulse quickened. Lyra stared down at the half-written letter, then slowly set it aside. The others would destroy it. This one should not be lost.
Suddenly something clicked into place. That stone hadn’t been a keepsake. It had been an anchor. And maybe it could be the key to finding Caelith.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Lyra grabbed her shawl instantly and set off into the night to find the others. Umbralyn patrols were out in force, but they were sparse around the scribes quarters. She didn't have to leave the building to find Julen's quarters - it would be easy despite curfew. Or so she thought.
Just before she got there, she turned the corner and bumped straight into another Umbralyn. The one from the square, dark silver eyes, silver scars glistening under his hooded cloak. He smiled at her.
Lyra had almost reached Julen’s corridor when the air shifted.
She turned the corner and came face to face with an Umbralyn.
He stood unmoving in the lamplight, cloak falling in precise lines, silver scars faintly luminous against his skin. His eyes — dark, reflective — took her in with slow, deliberate interest.
“Lyra Colwyn,” he said. Not a question. “Out after curfew.”
Her pulse stuttered. She forced her shoulders to remain level.
“I was on my way to see someone.”
His mouth curved, just slightly. “So late, for a someone.”
“I have permission,” she said, and hated how thin it sounded.
“From whom?” he asked mildly. “Your tutors? The elders?” A pause. “Or do you believe rules loosen once one survives spectacle?”
Her jaw tightened, a flash of rage sweeping across her mind. She took a breath in.
“I wish to see Julen,” she said. “He is a fellow scribe.”
“Ah.” Recognition flickered. “The injured one.”
He stepped closer. Lyra felt the wards in his presence — a low pressure, like standing beneath deep water.
“And why,” he continued, “should that concern occupy you now?”
She swallowed. This was the moment.
“I wished to spend the night with him,” she said quietly, blushing. It was the only reason she could find so plausible, when anything else may have looked like a lie.
For a heartbeat, the Umbralyn only studied her. Then a soft sound escaped him — not quite laughter.
“How… human.”
His gaze sharpened. “And yet, you expect me to believe your attentions have shifted so conveniently?”
She felt heat rise to her face — let it. Let him read it as shame.
“I do not... care. For an Umbralyn. I... I mistook proximity for some sort of meaning.,” she said. “It was foolish.”
His eyes glinted.
“You refer,” he said slowly, “to your proximity with one of ours.”
Lyra did not answer. She didn’t need to.
“You grew close,” he continued. “Too close. A miscalculation you paid for.” He tilted his head. “Or do you deny it?”
“No,” she said. “I learned what happens when humans forget their place.”
Something like approval passed through his expression.
“I fail to understand,” he murmured, “why Caelith ever troubled himself with you at all.”
The name struck like a blade. Lyra kept her face smooth through sheer force.
“You humans are remarkably fragile,” he went on. “So easily mistaken for something more.”
Julen’s door creaked open behind her.
“Lyra?” Julen said, voice unsteady as he leaned on the frame. “You’re here.”
She turned, relief flooding her expression. She crossed the distance quickly, placing a hand at his waist, rising onto her toes to press a brief, careful kiss to his mouth.
“I needed to see you,” she said softly.
Julen blinked — then recovered admirably, lifting a hand to her cheek. “You should have come sooner.”
The Umbralyn watched them in silence, eyes narrowed. At last, he exhaled, faintly irritated.
“Very well,” he said. “See that you return to your quarters before dawn.”
His gaze lingered on Lyra a moment longer. “Do not mistake leniency for blindness.”
Then he turned and disappeared down the corridor, his footsteps soundless against the stone.
Lyra did not breathe until Julen closed the door behind them.
"Well, that was convincing." He paused. “Unless you intend to complicate my life further, I assume that was an act?
"Of course I was," she replied, smiling slightly. "I needed to speak with you urgently. It's about Caelith."
Julen sighed. “One is permitted a fantasy.”
“There’s something I forgot,” she said. “Or rather — something I didn’t understand.”
He listened as she described it: the stone, its warmth, the way the shards nearby had quieted when it was uncovered. The way Caelith had reacted — not alarmed, but guarded.
“He said it was calling to you?” Julen asked.
Lyra nodded. “I thought it was metaphor. Or superstition. You know how Caelith speaks sometimes.”
Julen’s expression had gone intent. “Memory-stones aren’t myth,” he said slowly. “They are very much outlawed. For humans, especially.”
Lyra blinked. “Outlawed?”
“Because they don’t just store memory,” Julen continued. “They preserve resonance. Emotion. Context. They don’t show you what happened — they let you feel it. You can hold all sorts of magic in there. Corruption. Things better left buried.”
Lyra’s breath caught.
“If it’s linked to him,” Julen said carefully, “it might not tell you where he is. That's not what it's for. More, where he was.”
“But it might tell me what he’s doing,” Lyra replied. “Or what he was preparing for.”
Julen nodded. “Or what he couldn’t say out loud.”
Silence stretched between them — not uncertainty, but consequence.
“So,” Julen said slowly, “you’re proposing we breach an Umbralyn’s quarters.
Lyra swallowed. “Yes.”
“And steal something explicitly forbidden.”
“Yes.”
Julen winced. “And if the wards catch us—”
“They will,” Lyra said. “Which is why we don’t all go.”
Julen looked at her.
“I’ll do it,” she continued. “It responded to me before. If anyone can move it without triggering containment, it’s me.”
Julen shook his head immediately. “Absolutely not alone.”
“I won’t be,” Lyra said. “But I’ll be the one who touches it.”
Julen exhaled slowly, then nodded. “Then we need access timing, ward interference, and a reason for you to be near the Umbralyn quarters without raising suspicion.”
"Selinne?"
Julen sighed. "You know she'll figure out a way. She won't let you go alone, though."
Lyra felt it then — not fear, but resolve settling into place. This was no longer about guessing where Caelith had been taken, it was about listening to what he had left behind.