The wind turned bitter by nightfall. Cold enough to bite through wool and skin. Elira pressed closer to the hearth, though the fire inside the inn did little more than flicker in defiance of the growing chill.
Tovin lay on the cot near the window, fitfully sleeping, murmuring again in that same strange tongue. She couldn't translate it, but each night the words grew clearer—less dreamlike.
More deliberate.
She didn't wake him. Not yet.
She needed time to think.
The second seal had changed something in her.
Her magic—once raw and reactive—had begun responding to things before she even cast. The pendant at her neck now pulsed without contact. Symbols glowed faintly when she looked too long at the old script.
Something ancient stirred inside her.
And it terrified her more than she could admit.
A soft knock at the door shattered the quiet.
Not loud. Not frantic. Just… patient.
Elira stood immediately, hand on her blade.
Another knock.
Then, a voice—low, feminine, half-amused:
"I'd rather not burn your door down, child. Open it."
Elira's fingers tensed. She slowly cracked the door.
A woman stood there, cloaked in ash-grey robes, with silver threaded into her hair. Eyes sharp as frost. A half-smile touched her lips.
"Hello, Elira."
"Who are you?" Elira demanded.
"You look just like your mother," the woman said. "Though far more stubborn."
Elira's heart stopped.
"You knew her?"
"I taught her," the woman said, stepping inside. "Long ago, before she became more fire than flesh."
Elira didn't lower her guard. "Name."
The woman smiled wider. "Sorienne."
*
Tovin remained asleep—Sorienne's doing, Elira suspected. The air around her hummed with cloaked power. Not aggressive. But ancient. Like dust hiding a blade.
"What do you want?"
"To warn you."
"About what?"
Sorienne crouched beside the fire, warming her hands.
"The prophecy's unraveling. You've stepped off the path. That boy shouldn't be with you yet."
"I didn't ask for him to be."
"Fate doesn't care what you ask for."
Elira folded her arms. "What do you know about him?"
"Enough to know he was crafted, not born."
Elira flinched. "What does that mean?"
Sorienne looked at her with something close to pity. "You'll find out. When the third seal breaks."
*
Outside, the wind howled suddenly—and all the candles in the room flickered.
Elira turned toward the window.
A shape stood beyond the glass.
Tall. Hooded. No features.
Just a presence, too still, too silent to be natural.
Sorienne stiffened.
"Elira," she said quietly, "don't move."
The Grey Watcher stood there, veiled by snow and shadow, its gaze fixed on Elira like a predator remembering a long-forgotten hunt.
Then it raised a hand.
Pressed it once—slowly—against the glass.
The frost there darkened.
And in it, burned a third sigil.
A spiral of flame and bone.
Then the shape vanished into the storm.
Elira exhaled shakily. "What is that thing?"
Sorienne rose slowly. "A reminder."
"Of what?"
"That not all prophecies are written to save the world," Sorienne said. "Some were made to end it."
Elira turned toward Tovin—still asleep, still murmuring.
And for the first time, she truly wondered—
What had her mother cursed her to become?