The revelations of the reliquary settled over the next few days like a fine, metaphysical dust. Elara moved through the routines of court and study in a state of heightened, almost painful awareness. Every spell she saw, every flicker of magic, she now perceived through the lens of the ancient patterns—the Ring of Unmarred Accord, the screaming fracture of the gem. Her own reservoir of power felt different; it was no longer just a pool of fuel, but a substance she understood on a primal level—the raw material of creation, born from a cosmic hunger. The melancholy of the First Siphon's vessel was a quiet, constant bass note in her soul, a reminder of the abyss her own nature skirted.
Kaelen felt the shift in her through their bond. His training became less about instruction and more about focused application. They drilled relentlessly in the privacy of his study, but the goal was no longer simple constructs.
"You understand the theory of 'whole,'" he said, standing across from her, a complex, three-dimensional diagram of interlocking energies hovering between them. It was his attempt to map the breach's structure based on her sensory data. "Now you must practice imposing it on 'broken.' Not on a grand scale. On this."
He gestured to a simple ceramic cup he had placed on the table. With a flick of his finger, a hair-thin crack appeared from rim to base. "A trivial break. A mockery of the real thing. But the principle is the same. Convince the ceramic it was never cracked. Imprint the memory of its wholeness onto its present state."
Elara stared at the cup. The crack was a jagged, black line of absence. She reached for her reservoir, drew a thread of silver energy, and imprinted it with the perfect, seamless pattern of the Unmarred Ring—the concept of flawless unity. She pushed it into the cup.
The ceramic shivered. For a second, the crack glowed silver. Then, with a sharp ping, the cup exploded into a dozen pieces.
She flinched. "Too much force. I tried to… overwrite it."
"Exactly," Kaelen said, not unkindly. He waved a hand, and the pieces reassembled themselves, the crack reappearing. "You cannot bully reality. You must persuade it. The crack is part of its history now. You cannot erase history. You must… integrate it. Show the cup that its current, broken state is a temporary deviation from its true, whole nature. The crack must become a memory, not a present fact."
It was a philosophical paradox given physical form. She tried again, and again. The cup exploded, or melted, or simply ignored her. The difficulty was maddening. She was trying to argue with an inanimate object about its own existence.
Her frustration was a live wire. The bond thrummed with it, and with Kaelen's own controlled impatience. Time was a luxury they were rapidly losing.
The court, meanwhile, was a pressure cooker nearing its burst point.
Lord Theron's "proactive cleansing" rhetoric had found fertile ground among the military commanders and the more fear-driven nobles. Whispers in the halls now spoke not just of the "Mender-Queen," but of the "Queen of Unseen Arts." Sylvyre's faction, the traditionalists, viewed her healing not as a blessing but as a dangerous manipulation of the natural order. Only Caelan and his Greenwardens offered a counterbalance of open support, but theirs was the voice of gardeners in a court of warriors and priests.
The breaking point came during the weekly open court.
A petitioner from the eastern marches—a region far from the Wither—came forward, not with a grievance, but with a gift. It was a rare, luminous orchid said to bloom only in places of potent, untamed magic. Its petals were the color of a twilight sky, and it pulsed with a gentle, soothing light.
"For the Mender-Queen," the petitioner said, bowing low. "A token from lands grateful for the hope her skills represent."
It was a public, beautiful endorsement. Elara, seated beside Kaelen, accepted it with a gracious nod. The orchid's magic was clean and vibrant, a tiny star of life in her hands.
From the side of the hall, Lord Theron's voice cut through the polite murmur. "How curious." He didn't step forward, but his words carried. "The Glimmerweed Orchid. It is said to flourish in the presence of great power. Tell me, my lady, does it resonate with your own… unique energies?"
It was a seemingly innocent question, laden with poison. He was asking her to perform, to demonstrate her power on the spot, to prove its nature.
All eyes turned to her. Kaelen's body went still beside her, a statue of controlled rage. She could feel his will through the bond, a silent command: Caution.
But caution had limits. To refuse would be seen as having something to hide. To comply was to dance to Theron's tune.
Elara looked at the orchid. She didn't need to use her power on it. Her Siphon senses, now so refined, could feel its simple, joyous pattern. She could also feel the subtle, invasive probe of Theron's own magic—a hawk-like scrutiny trying to pick apart her aura.
An idea, reckless and bold, sparked.
She smiled, a gentle, open expression. "It is a beautiful creature. It doesn't need my power, Lord Theron. It has its own." She held the orchid up, and with the lightest, most delicate touch of her will—not drawing, not imposing, but simply brushing its pattern with the concept of the Unmarred Ring—she encouraged it.
The orchid didn't just glow. It sang. A soft, crystal chime emanated from its petals, and the light it emitted intensified, weaving into delicate, holographic patterns of starlight around the bloom. It was a harmless, gorgeous display—the orchid's own magic, inspired, not altered.
The court gasped in delight. It was a spectacle of beauty, not of threat.
But Theron's yellow eyes narrowed. He hadn't felt her do anything. No spell cast, no energy drawn. It was as if the flower had simply decided to be more itself. That was more unnerving than a flashy demonstration. It spoke of an influence he couldn't perceive or understand.
Lady Sylvyre, however, saw something else. Her white eyes, sensitive to the echoes of magic, widened. She hadn't felt a spell either, but she had felt the ripple—the subtle, profound suggestion of "wholeness" that Elara had imparted. It was a flavor of magic utterly alien to the Fae repertoire. It didn't command or request; it reminded.
Sylvyre's serene mask fractured for a single, revealing instant. Not with anger, but with something like holy terror. She took a half-step back, her hand going to the moonstone pendant at her throat.
The moment passed. Elara handed the orchid to a page amid applause. The court moved on.
But the damage was done.
That night, in Kaelen's study, the atmosphere was grim. "You played Theron beautifully," Kaelen admitted, pouring two glasses of the strong, golden liquor. "He is confused, which is worse for him than being angry. But Sylvyre… you frightened her. And a frightened zealot is unpredictable."
"What did she sense?" Elara asked, taking the glass but not drinking.
"The echo of the old magic. The touch of something primordial. My relics are warded, but the concept you used… it has a signature. To her, it would feel like a ghost from before the Sundering had just patted the flower on the head." He drank deeply. "She will go to the Star-Chapel. She will pray for guidance. And she will likely convince others that your power is not of this age, and therefore an abomination."
Elara's newfound confidence wavered. "So I can't win. If I show nothing, I'm a suspicious cipher. If I show subtlety, I'm a primordial horror. If I show force, I'm a weapon."
"You are winning," Kaelen corrected, his stormy eyes fierce. "You are forcing them to show their hands. Theron shows his brute ambition. Sylvyre shows her brittle dogma. The lines are being drawn. We see the battlefield now."
He set his glass down with a decisive click. "Which is why we cannot wait any longer. Theron will make his move soon. Sylvyre will provide the religious justification. We need our victory now."
He walked to the great map, tapping the location of the Wither. "We leave at next dusk. Not with a royal escort. With a small, trusted group. Nylas and a handful of Shade-Walkers. Vorian will meet us there. We will go to the breach." He turned to her, his expression etched with the weight of the gamble. "And you, Elara, will attempt to seal it."
The finality of his words hung in the air. The practice was over. The theory was about to be tested on the living wound of the world.
All her learning, all her fear, all the ancient echoes in her soul—it all funneled down to this.
She met his gaze, the bond between them humming with shared resolve and shared dread. She thought of the broken cup, the screaming gem, the lonely clay bowl.
"I'll need to see it again," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "The breach. Not to trace it. To listen to its scream. To find the point where the ring became a gem."
Kaelen nodded. "Then we listen. And then," he said, the shadow of a king's ruthless hope in his eyes, "we ask it, very politely, to remember what it was."