The great library of the Elodorian palace bore a name spoken with reverence by scholars and priests alike: Lux Lucis—the Light of Light. It was a place meant to illuminate the past, to preserve truth where memory faltered. Towering shelves rose toward vaulted ceilings etched with celestial patterns, their stone ribs catching the soft glow of ever-burning lanterns. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment, and wax.
Orielle sat alone at one of the long oak tables near the center of the hall.
Hours had passed, long enough for the candles to melt low, wax pooling around their bases. Books lay open before her in careful disarray, their spines cracked, pages yellowed, margins crowded with ink faded by centuries. Her posture was straight but weary, her fingers lightly brushing lines of text, she skimmed as best she could to get as much information in as fast as possible.
She had come seeking clarity. What she had found instead were more questions.
Orielle reached for the first book again, drawing it closer. It was a slim volume bound in white leather, surprisingly pristine compared to the others. Embossed in gold upon its cover was a familiar symbol: a circle enclosing five stars.
"The Holy Scripture of the Circle," she read aloud softly.
The words felt practiced on her tongue, comfortable, she's heard it all too often spoken throughout her childhood by neighbours and priests. She opened the book to its opening pages, the script neat and ceremonial.
"The Circle of Five shines eternal, guardians of Eldoria's soul. Elymar, who brings the dawn and heals the weak. Aliryn, whose beauty inspires and whose love binds all hearts. Phoros, whose knowledge weighs truth and weaves wisdom through our days. Silvane, whose hands bring growth and whose power heals the meek. Varkon, whose thunder shields us and whose warlike cry scatters our foes."
Orielle nodded faintly as she continued, her voice steady, almost fond.
"Together they are the light of Eldoria, holy and unbroken. By their grace the harvest ripens. By their wisdom kings rule. By their mercy we endure, guided always toward righteousness."
She closed the book gently, her fingertips resting on the cover. "This is what the priests taught us," she murmured. "Every festival. Every blessing."
She turned the book over, inspecting it as though expecting hidden markings to appear beneath the leather. Finding nothing, she flipped through it once more, skimming passages that repeated familiar themes—obedience, devotion, balance. Comforting. Clean. But nothing about a curse or their hand of protection, at least not anything new.
Setting it aside, she reached for the next volume. This one was plainer, its binding worn, stamped with a scholarly seal rather than religious iconography. "A Record of the Twelve," she read quietly.
Her brows knit together as she opened it. "It is said there are Twelve who hold divinity, though their natures are many and their beginnings often unknown."
Her lips parted slightly as she continued. "The Twelve Named Gods: Elymar — Vitality & Light. Origin: Born of the first dawn. Nytheris — Truth & Shadows. Origin: Born from the silence between day and night."
Orielle paused. "Nytheris?" she said slowly. "Wait... this is about other gods? other than the holy circle?"
She turned the page, her movements more deliberate now.
Aliryn—Love and Vanity. Myralis—Order and Justice. Bralgor—Craft and Forge. Varkon—War and Thunder. Phoros—Knowledge and Cunning. Khaylith—Death and Silence. Mareon—Chaos and Change. Silvane—Growth and Earth. Aequira—Sea and Curiosity. Aevyss—Time and Fate.
Her fingers hovered over the list as though afraid to touch it. "There are records," she read aloud, voice quieter now, "that speak of gods who no longer walk as gods."
Her breathing slowed. "Those who lose divinity are not well understood. Some perish. Some fall among mortals. Others linger as lesser gods."
Orielle leaned back in her chair, the wood creaking softly beneath her weight. "Twelve," she said faintly. "Not five? Does... does Tirian know about this too?"
Her gaze drifted toward the shelves, as if expecting the walls themselves to answer her. "Why were these names never spoken? Why were entire gods erased from common teaching?"
She continued reading, her confusion deepening. "Whispers speak of lesser gods—Watchers. Their voices faint. Their power fragile. Yet when united, they may bend the thread of destiny for but a moment."
Orielle shut the book with a sharp thud, the sound echoing louder than she intended in the quiet hall. "Watchers?" she tasted it on her lips as she looked up and around her. "Why would they be watching? Are they... watching right now?" Her fingers curled against the tabletop.
Setting the book aside, she reached for the third. This one was richly illustrated, its margins filled with flowing script and painted depictions of divine figures wreathed in light and adorned in gold and beautiful linen.
"A book of poems," she observed softly.
She read aloud, her voice catching the rhythm easily. "O radiant Circle, fivefold flame, Keepers of Eldoria's heart—In your light no shadow lingers,I n your will no doubt remains…"
She smiled faintly as she continued, flipping through the pages, until she reached the final page.
The tone seemed to shift slightly. "Praise them, praise them, the glory of kings. Praise them, praise them, the lifeblood that sings. But glory is hunger, and hunger has cost—Who pays the tally, when blessing is lost?"
Orielle stared at the page. "That doesn't sound like praise," she murmured. "Did something happen to the author?"
The fourth book lay beneath her hand before she realized she'd reached for it. Its cover was cracked, its leather darkened with age. The title was simple.
The Gods.
Orielle hesitated. "I don't remember adding this," she said quietly.
Opening it, she began to read. "The gods are high, yet not free. They are bound. They are watchers. They are whispers. To Serve or to be served will always be and never be known."
A chill crept along her spine. "They cannot tread mortal soil, lest the soil eat them away. They cannot take mortal hands, lest their flesh burn to ash. Yet still they hunger. And so, they choose."
She turned pages faster now, skipping a few. "Three ways they mark a soul:The Worshipper. The Bargainer. The Pitied. Each their own cost covered as blessing. The gods, the gods are holy, the gods the gods they are greedy. Their power is ******" The words were scratched out by something sharp, it went straight through some pages.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she carried on to read. "To touch their power is to touch their chain. To drink their gift is to taste their hunger. Beware, mortal—Even mercy binds."
Orielle snapped the book shut. The silence felt heavier now.
Suddenly a knock echoed through the library. She startled, breath catching as a knight stepped inside. His armor gleamed, polished and unfamiliar.
"My lady," he said politely, bowing. "I'm here to take you make to your chambers, sir Kahiel sent me."
Orielle exhaled, offering a polite smile as she pushed the book back and brushed invisible dust from her sleeves. "I lost track of time," she said lightly.
The night smiled. "The library tends to steal time my lady." She nodded "I was trying to find out more about the gods and the prophecy, hehe I guess I got a bit sidetracked... Have you read much about the gods sir..?"
The knight nodded. "As long as we obey, the gods will guide us. For now, may I escort you my lady?
" She agreed with a nod, standing and gathering her candle. "Thank you. Perhaps I've learned too much in one night."
As they walked through the dimly lit halls, her pace slowed, her expression shifting as if something dawned on her. She turned to him, her voice casual but probing. "I don't believe I've seen you before," she said cautiously watching the knight's face. "You said Sir Kahiel sent you?"
The knight's smile faded.
Before she could react, he pressed a cloth over her mouth, the sharp scent of herbs filling her senses. She struggled briefly, her eyes widening in shock, but her limbs grew heavy, at first she couldn't move, paralysed then her consciousness finally slipped away.
He caught her slumping form. "I'm sorry my lady, but I have to take you somewhere now." He lifted her carefully, his touch not rough, and slipped into the shadows, vanishing through a hidden passage.
*****
Morning came with panic.
Footsteps echoed through corridors long before the bells rang, guards moving in tight formations as they searched rooms, stairwells, and hidden passages with mounting urgency. Servants clustered in doorways and corners, voices lowered but frantic, fear spreading faster than any command.
"The queen is gone," one maid whispered, her hands trembling as she clutched her apron. "Vanished in the night."
Another crossed herself hastily. "From inside the palace? How could anyone—"
The queen's chamber was a motion and grief. Lyssia paced the length of the room, her steps sharp, hands clenched tight at her sides. Her gaze kept flicking to the untouched bed, and the door, as if waiting for the queen to walk through it any moment.
Mirra sat on the edge of a chair, hunched inward, her fingers knotted together so tightly her knuckles had gone white. When they had found her at dawn, she had been slumped against a bookcase in the library, her head pounding, her memory fractured and useless.
She only remembered fragments. A knight. Polite. Handsome. Calm.
Something about orders from Sir Kahiel.
The realization burned now, shame and fear twisting together until her breath hitched. How could I have been so foolish? How could I have smiled, trusted, stepped aside? If I had stayed—if I had questioned—
Lyssia stopped pacing abruptly and struck her own forehead with the heel of her hand, a sharp, frustrated sound. "Damn it," she muttered, her voice breaking. "What do we do?"
Mirra bowed her head, shoulders trembling, unable to lift her eyes, as tears started to stream down her face again.
By the time Tirian returned to the Palace, the sun had barely climbed over the stone towers.
The forest raid had yielded nothing. No bodies. No resistance. No sign of the escaped prisoner beyond the cold imprint of flight, as if he had dissolved into the night itself. The wrongness of it gnawed at Tirian as he dismounted, armor still clean, untouched by battle.
Someone had known. Someone must have told him... betrayed the plan...
He was already striding toward the war room when Sir Kahiel met him at the doors, pale and rigid, dread written plainly across his face.
"My lord," Kahiel said quietly. "The queen… she's missing."
The words struck like ice. Tirian stopped. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath.
"Missing?" His voice was level—dangerously so. Then his fist came down.
The table cracked beneath the blow, wood splintering outward as knights flinched and stepped back. No shouting followed. No roar of fury. Just silence, thick, heavy, waiting.
He tore the gauntlet from his hand, then the next piece of armor, movements sharp and unrestrained, as though the steel itself were suffocating him. "Explain," he said.
Kahiel stepped forward carefully. "She was last seen in the library, my lord. Her maid was found unconscious and remembers very little. A servant reported seeing a knight escort Her Majesty through the halls. No one recognizes him. He's gone."
Tirian's jaw tightened. "A knight," he repeated softly. His gaze lifted, burning. "Mobilize everything. Seal the roads. We will find her before she gets too far."
He turned for the door, cloak snapping behind him like a drawn blade. No one followed until he was gone.
And as he strode into the waking Citadel, one thought cut through everything else—sharp, terrifying, and absolute.
I will find you... Hold on, Orielle. Please... please hold on.