In many places across Elindros, people speak of the vessels of the Sonatius Mortaeda. Some say they are women of such otherworldly beauty that the primordial being could never leave them to an Elindine. Others, however, believe that the vessels are cursed from birth—and that only a bond with the Sonatius Mortaeda can give their existence meaning.

  To many Elindine, they stand above all other beings—endowed with a power no one can explain, a power that should make them destined rulers. The village of Losnat is said to be blessed by this primordial force—or, as some believe, cursed. Yet, throughout this 500-year-old bond, one crucial question remains: Why is it always women who are blessed—or burdened—with this power?

  Is it a secret pact that Eldralith Entium once made with the primordial being? Many gaps remain in the records of this past event. No one can say for certain what truly happened back then—only nature itself may bear witness to this ancient agreement, hidden in the whispers of the trees and the murmurs of the wind.

  After our brief rest by the fire, during which we spoke of many things, the conversation turned to my destiny. Sylas believes that my path must lead to a different purpose. After all, I am not the rightful ninth vessel. This burden was meant for my mother. But why did she refuse it? Why did she place this responsibility upon me? Eldralith Entium and Isilyn Entium—two names crucial to understanding my origins. And yet, they feel so distant. They are in a place where not even life can reach them.

  I don’t know what barriers the conversation between Sylas and Mirael might have broken in her, but ever since, she has treated me differently. Our talk by the fire, our first shared laughter—an odd familiarity forming in the icy nights of Elindros. If I weren’t Vespera Entium, perhaps a true friendship could have grown between us. But how much trust can I place in this sudden change? In the end, I am still responsible for the death of Gisela Str?mert and so many other Solniw. Can Mirael’s attitude toward me truly have changed after just one conversation?

  The landscape shifts as we approach Velsoth. At first, we were surrounded by an ancient forest, its tangled roots setting traps for my feet more than once. The treetops rose so high they swallowed the light, casting the ground into eternal twilight. As we left the forest near Arenath, we were greeted by a crystal-clear stream, its waters flowing over moss-covered stones like liquid glass. But now, with the sun high above us, we are left utterly exposed. Why should we hide? Winter in Elindros is relentless. The wind lashes against my skin like a merciless blade, but I focus on my thoughts to keep from shivering every second.

  Sylas exhales in relief, drawing both Mirael’s and my attention. “Only one or two more hours to Velsoth.”

  The two days that have felt like an eternity are finally nearing their end.

  My feet ache from the endless march over uneven terrain. Every step reminds me how accustomed my body is to the smooth stone floors of the castle in the human world. The human world … the king and queen. How are they faring? How did they react to the night of my escape?

  Zyar and Sylas, with their black hooded cloaks and the use of their powers, must have caused quite a stir. The shock of their appearance must have swept through the castle like a storm.

  Once I become one with Sonatius Mortaeda, I must return—and demand answers from my fa… the king.

  Suddenly, Sylas throws both arms up and pushes Mirael and me back. The Solniw and I exchange confused glances. His posture is alarming—tense, ready to fight. But why?

  My eyes scan our surroundings. The wind howls through the grass, but otherwise, there is silence. No sign of movement, no trace of an enemy.

  “They’ve caught up to us,” Sylas mutters in a disgusted growl. “Not many, but enough to challenge us. Mirael, stay out of the fight. No one can know you’re here. Do you understand?”

  Mirael obeys without protest. She recognizes the urgency of the situation—just as I do. But while she must hold back despite her immense strength, I am nothing more than a burden.

  Sylas’ gaze pierces mine. “Vespera, they’re after you. If you see that I’m losing, you must flee with Mirael. Do you understand? With the Astralis, you’ll find your way to Velsoth.”

  What is he saying? How could I leave him behind? How could I let him sacrifice himself for me? Yes, I accepted the blood pact that binds his life to mine—but I am not ready to send him to his death so soon. Not after all the innocent lives already lost because of me.

  Then, a voice rings out. Near and distant at the same time, a whispered echo that seems to crawl through the air.

  “What brave warriors the men of Solnya are.”

  My blood freezes. It must be the Elindine from Cata Sualti!

  “Do you want to face us alone? Should I show your women how big your balls really are? Or should I cut them off, Solniw?”

  The voice echoes from all directions. Unconsciously, I tense up, fearing that the enemy is standing right behind me. But Sylas has already sensed them. He knows where they are.

  He snorts. “How about you talk less and fight more?” His voice drips with mockery. “You Sualtiers from that filthy hole you call Cata Sualti—you’re like vermin that just won’t go away.”

  “Oh, now you’ve hurt my feelings.” The stranger laughs, a cold, cutting melody. “But cheer up: today, you have the honor of being killed by a Sualtier.”

  Then it happens—faster than my mind can process. The wind before us rips apart into multiple shadows, silhouettes of figures emerging from nothingness. In the same second, Sylas conjures a protective barrier of water around Mirael and me while blocking an attack.

  The attacker steps into the light. A face from our past.

  Rasha Vane.

  The murderer of Mrs. Str?mert.

  His deep red hair falls in loose strands, his green eyes gleaming menacingly as if we were standing face to face. A mask covers the lower part of his face, but the skin that remains visible is marred by countless scars.

  Beside me, I feel Mirael’s tension, her clenched fists, the twitch in her lips. Rage. Unrestrained rage. And yet, she remains behind the barrier.

  She stands before her mother’s murderer. And she can do nothing.

  “You’re an interesting one,” Rasha Vane says, eyeing Sylas with amusement. “I’ve never faced the same opponent twice before. You’re the first to stand against me a second time.”

  Sylas’ voice is a sharpened blade. “Then you must have chosen your opponents carefully.”

  “Do you think this world is only black and white?” Rasha Vane clicks his tongue. “Our scouts are everywhere. In every village of Elindros. Even in Solnya.”

  Sylas scoffs. “Tell your fairy tales to someone who cares. We Solniw still have honor and pride.”

  Rasha Vane chuckles softly. “Is that so? You know, since our last meeting, I’ve thought about you quite often.”

  Sylas raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Have you fallen in love with me?”

  Rasha Vane gestures toward Sylas. His expression remains hidden behind the mask, but though he laughs at Sylas’ words, there is no real amusement in it.

  We are in great danger. And if these silhouettes behind him are more allies, we desperately need reinforcements. I cannot let Sylas die. But what am I supposed to do?

  “You!” Rasha Vane suddenly snaps his fingers, his eyes locking onto me.

  “The vessel of the Sonatius Mortaeda. You’re coming with us. Drakhan Vathar will be pleased to see you.”

  Drakhan Vathar… The leader of the village Cata Sualti. The Lord of War. A man who dared to defy Zyar Velqorin, the Legate of the Elements.

  I cannot fall into his hands. Who knows what plans he has for me?

  “Leave Vespera out of this, Sualtier,” Sylas hisses in disgust. “Focus on the enemy right in front of you.”

  Rasha Vane shifts his gaze from me, but in that brief moment when his eyes were on me, I knew: He won’t let me escape again.

  Without another word, he lunges at Sylas. His daggers flash from their sheaths, their tips already aimed at their target.

  Sylas reacts in an instant. Snow covers the ground around us—a weapon he wields with mastery. With a barely perceptible motion, he pulls the water from the frozen white. Fine, shimmering threads dance through the air, merging and twisting into a massive water whip that coils around his left arm—a deadly extension of his body.

  Sylas expertly deflects Rasha Vane’s attack. The Sualtier’s daggers crash against the hardened surface of the water whip—a sharp impact as metal meets ice. In the blink of an eye, Sylas freezes the spot of impact, preventing the blades from breaking through.

  Rasha Vane withdraws his weapons, pivots with smooth elegance, and launches a new strike. Sylas responds immediately. With a sharp motion, he releases the frozen whip, shattering the ice into a thousand glittering shards. The water remains under his control, reshaping, flowing like a living serpent around his arm. A moment of stillness—then movement explodes once more.

  I can barely breathe, let alone blink. My gaze flickers to Mirael. Her hands are clenched into fists, her jaw muscles tight. Her eyes brim with concern.

  “I can end this,” she whispers—more to herself than to me. “I just have to…”

  But I can’t focus on her words. The fight rages on, relentless, without a second of pause.

  Rasha Vane strikes again, his daggers slicing through the air, quick, precise thrusts aiming for Sylas’ throat and chest. But the Solniw does not stand still—he moves like water itself, smooth, flowing, evading. He drops backward, using the elasticity of his water whip to launch himself forward again, delivering a whipping strike toward Rasha Vane’s unguarded side.

  The Sualtier blocks at the last moment, but the force of the attack knocks him back a step.

  “Not bad,” he murmurs, letting his fingers glide over the blade of his dagger while eyeing Sylas with a challenging gaze. “But not enough.”

  Then, he vanishes.

  My heart stops.

  Rasha Vane is faster than my eyes can perceive. A gust of wind, a sudden movement—and he reappears right behind Sylas, his daggers flashing with deadly intent.

  Sylas turns, jerks his arms up—but he is a fraction of a second too late.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  A slash. Blood splatters onto the snow.

  I want to scream. But Sylas doesn’t even flinch. With his free hand, he grabs Rasha Vane’s wrist, pulling him close, and unleashes his water whip at point-blank range.

  It strikes.

  A surge of icy water crashes against the Sualtier’s arm. Rasha Vane growls as the cold seeps through his clothing. I can see his muscles tense for a brief moment—a fleeting but clear reaction to the painful pressure of the freezing water. That single second of weakness is all Sylas needs to launch another attack.

  He tugs at the whip, the water following his command, slithering around Rasha Vane’s arm before instantly hardening into ice. The Sualtier is forced to drop one of his daggers.

  But instead of cursing or fleeing, he laughs.

  “Well played, Solniw. But…”

  With a single, abrupt motion, he dissolves into thin air. The ice shatters, and before the shards even hit the ground, he is already moving again.

  The abilities of the Sualtier are impressive. While Sylas can only wield his power in the presence of water, Rasha Vane possesses the remarkable skill of dissolving his body into mist, untethered by the natural laws of Elindros. This superiority makes it clear that some villages dominate over others, further exposing the inequalities between communities. Where do the Losniw stand in this hierarchy?

  His free hand snaps forward, his blade slicing through the air in a merciless arc aimed at Sylas’s side. Sylas leaps back, but too late—a thin, bloody gash cuts through his clothing. The second wound the Solniw has suffered.

  “…you’re not fast enough.”

  Rasha Vane steps back, twirling the dagger between his fingers, studying the blood on its edge. His green eyes glint.

  “Do you know what I love most about fighting?” he asks mockingly. “That moment when my opponent realizes he’s going to die.”

  He lunges again.

  This time, with the intent to kill.

  Sylas dodges, his movements fluid as he deflects the attack and counters with his water whip. Rasha Vane leaps aside, but the force of the water strikes his thigh, briefly throwing him off balance. A broad grin appears on Sylas’s face.

  “That won’t help you, Sualtier,” Sylas calls out, controlling the water with his free hand, making it swirl around him like a living entity.

  But Rasha Vane is not easily defeated. He recovers quickly, dashing forward again, his speed blinding. This time, he aims for Sylas’s shoulder—a precise strike that could be deep and dangerous. But Sylas is prepared; his water whip curves elegantly, and the dagger meets its surface just as it solidifies at the last second.

  Another clash follows, blades flashing in the cold air, each strike accompanied by the sound of metal clashing against ice. Sylas remains calm, focused, while Rasha Vane moves like a predator—unpredictable, driven by fury and a thirst for destruction.

  I can barely stand still, my heart hammering in my chest as I watch the two warriors. Sylas’s control over water is impressive, but I can sense the creeping exhaustion in his movements.

  “You fight well, Solniw, but…” Rasha Vane laughs again, and it sounds like cracking ice. “I have no time for games. Your time is running out.”

  Sylas ignores his words, seizing the moment to launch another attack. With a swift motion, he hurls a sphere of water at Rasha Vane, sending it hurtling through the air like a projectile. The Sualtier dodges, but not quickly enough—the water strikes his upper arm, slowing him down.

  “You’re unpredictable, but…” Rasha Vane makes a skilled movement, retracting his blade before lunging directly at Sylas. Sylas is momentarily distracted, just as Rasha Vane, eyes flashing with a sardonic grin, appears before him. “…it’s not enough to defeat me.”

  Sylas steps back, but this time, Rasha Vane is ready. He spins, dagger in hand, the metallic gleam flashing in my eyes.

  I can’t stand by any longer.

  The two fighters clash with full force, and I hold my breath. Rasha Vane’s blade finds Sylas’s forearm, and I watch in horror as the sharp edge slices through his skin. A warm stream of blood splatters onto the snow-white ground, a shocking contrast that shatters the frozen stillness around us. Sylas’s face contorts in pain, the muscles in his jaw tightening, but he remains standing as agony courses through his arm.

  In the next moment, Rasha Vane leaps back with effortless grace, his eyes gleaming with triumph. The distance between them widens, but the tension in the air remains palpable—as if the battle has only just begun. Sylas forces himself to stay upright, his gaze locked onto his opponent, determined not to fall.

  “You’re strong, but you’re not invincible,” Rasha Vane taunts as he drives Sylas into a corner. “Give up, and I promise to make your end quick and painless.”

  “I will never surrender!” Sylas growls, and I can feel the unyielding determination in his words.

  He focuses, making the water around him pulse before unleashing a wave of frozen water that crashes into Rasha Vane with full force, sending him staggering back. The Sualtier stumbles but quickly regains his balance, scoffing in disdain.

  “You’re persistent. Admirable. But in the end, it won’t help you. I will defeat you—and your little friends as well.”

  A cold shiver runs down my spine, and I know I can’t remain idle any longer.

  I want to help! If only I had a fraction of the power that Mirael possesses! If only I could be a real support for Sylas! Who knows how much effort it takes for him to maintain the water barrier protecting us? I don’t want to be a burden anymore! If I’m truly a Losniw—let alone the vessel of the Sonatius Mortaeda—then I must prove my strength.

  “You must find your path to him.”

  The voice echoes in my mind with unfamiliar clarity, a voice I’ve known since childhood, one that has always been with me. Yet ever since my arrival in Elindros, it had fallen silent. So why do I hear it now?

  “Vespera, find your way to your inner gates! Let me help you!”

  And then—it happens.

  The world around me sinks into complete darkness. Sylas, Rasha Vane, Mirael—all vanish as if they had never existed. Silence surrounds me, oppressive and absolute, like an invisible noose tightening around my throat. I am alone.

  Suddenly, a hand emerges from the shadows, bathed in a soft yet intense light. I squint, momentarily blinded by the sudden brightness. As the glow fades, I dare to look again.

  A figure stands before me, its face hidden beneath the deep hood of a long cloak.

  “Are you…?” My voice sounds foreign in the silence, as if swallowed by the shadows. “…the voice that has spoken to me all these years?”

  But the figure remains silent. Without a word, it steps closer—soundless, almost floating. My body wants to recoil, but I can’t move. Then, it passes through me—a chilling shudder runs over my skin, like countless spiderwebs gliding down my arms.

  My heart pounds against my ribs as I finally regain control of my body. I whirl around, watching as the figure moves away, its arms slowly rising—with the grace of a being that weighs every movement with purpose.

  From the ground, delicate, shimmering threads begin to rise, spreading in all directions. Where they emerge, gentle points of light illuminate the darkness. The sight is breathtaking—and terrifying.

  What does this mean? Who—or what—is this figure?

  These threads… they remind me of the abilities of the Elindine from Losnat. Is this being a manifestation of myself? Or an echo of past vessels? The thought seems absurd, and yet… The dead shouldn’t be able to communicate with me like this.

  “Who are you?” My question echoes in the void, but once again, no answer comes.

  Then, suddenly—

  An image appears before my eyes.

  A boy.

  His blond hair, soft and wavy, falls to his shoulders. I can only see him from the side, but he slowly turns toward me. And though he doesn’t seem to notice me, I see him clearly. His eyes—one deep emerald green, the other a crystalline blue—gaze into the distance.

  “Sylas…?”

  I turn abruptly, searching for the figure that brought me here. But it remains still in the background, as if it had never moved closer.

  The young Solniw continues to look through me, as if I were merely a ghost, a memory he does not perceive. I follow his gaze, turning around—but there is nothing. Only endless darkness.

  “What are you looking at?” I whisper.

  No response.

  There is sorrow in his eyes. And something else—a deep, immeasurable emptiness.

  I turn back to the mysterious figure.

  “What exactly are you trying to show me?”

  The figure does not answer with words. Instead, it slowly raises its left arm and points directly at me. Moments later, the ground is torn away from beneath my feet. A jolt surges through me, as if an invisible force is yanking me out of my own body. But when I blink again, I am still standing in the same place—or rather, someone who looks exactly like me is.

  I see myself from a distance.

  My doppelganger moves toward the boy—toward Sylas as a child. Gently, she places her hands on his head, and in that moment, fine, silvery threads emerge from his forehead. A cold shiver runs down my spine. It looks horrifying—as if my other self is extracting something from him—yet Sylas’s younger self shows no sign of pain. Instead, the emptiness in his eyes fades. Hope takes its place.

  “The Gift of Memory Weaving.”

  The voice echoes through the darkness—gentle, yet compelling. It is familiar and yet foreign to me. A third presence? Or is it the figure before me finally speaking? I turn around frantically, but nothing stirs. No shadow, no further sound.

  My copy withdraws from the boy, and with it, the threads vanish into the darkness. Our gazes meet—gray upon gray—and in an instant, I am pulled back.

  Suddenly, there is no more darkness. No doppelganger. No mysterious figure in a cloak. I am back in reality. Sylas. Rasha Vane. Mirael. They are all before me, and yet… I feel different.

  Then, it happens.

  The snow around us begins to melt—not slowly, but abruptly, as if an invisible heat had erased it. My eyes widen as I realize the cause. More Sualtier have appeared behind Rasha Vane. Their masks conceal their faces—some entirely, others only partially—but there is no doubt about their menace. Among them are women as well, yet they appear just as dangerous as the men. A strange substance swirls around their hands—mist, but condensed, tangible. Is this what made the snow vanish?

  “What’s going on?” Sylas hisses, his voice cutting with anger. “Do you need reinforcements to bring me to my knees?”

  Rasha Vane chuckles softly. “You truly are an amusing one. But our Drakhan is expecting the Silver One behind you. The Vessel has been missing long enough. It is time.”

  “We’ve cut off your water supply, boy!” one of the other Sualtier calls out, his voice deep and raspy. “Just give up and stop wasting our time.”

  Only now do I realize that Sylas’ barrier is still standing. His hands tremble slightly, and I understand—he is holding it up with the last of his strength. Why? Then I see it.

  He looks over his shoulder. First at Mirael, who watches him with a sorrowful expression. Then at me.

  And in his eyes, I see the same emptiness as in the young boy’s.

  How did I not notice it before?

  “He wants us to run,” Mirael whispers, her voice barely more than a breath. “We’re surrounded. And no matter how much I despise you, Vespera… I love Elindros. I can’t let them take you.”

  I stare at the girl, unable to respond. My gaze shifts back to Sylas, now completely encircled by the Sualtier. In the background, Rasha Vane watches me with amusement. Then… he vanishes into thin air.

  My heart skips a beat.

  Before I can react, he reappears right in front of me. His mocking grin is the last thing I see before he grabs my arm. He breaks the barrier.

  “No foolish tricks this time,” he says with dangerous calm. His gaze flickers to Mirael. “We’ll take her, too. Drakhan Vathar will find her useful.” Then his eyes land on Sylas. A shadow crosses his face. “I want the Solniw dead.”

  He yanks my arm, and I instinctively struggle. But as I try to wrench free, his grip tightens. In the next moment, his fingers run through my hair, gripping the back of my head, pulling me roughly toward him.

  My breath catches.

  His triumphant whisper is barely louder than the wind.

  “It’s time for Elindros to change.”

  No, no! I’m here! I learned something in that darkness! I can feel that my body has changed! But why is nothing happening?

  “LET HER GO!”

  A bone-shaking roar tears through the tense silence. Sylas lunges forward, yanking me from Rasha Vane’s grip and shoving him away with all his strength. He places himself in front of Mirael and me, his stance rigid, every muscle in his body poised for defense.

  Water whips form along his arms, writhing and slithering like living creatures. It wasn’t Rasha Vane who broke the barrier—Sylas used the last bit of the water available to protect us.

  But he looks exhausted. His breathing is heavy, and as my gaze sweeps over him, I notice fresh cuts on his body and face that weren’t there before. Blood drips onto the dry ground.

  “You’ve already reached your limit,” Rasha Vane taunts. “What now? Would you rather die by my hand than my men’s?”

  He pauses, his gaze piercing. Then he speaks again—his words cutting deeper than any blade.

  “Death should be familiar to you by now. After all, we slaughtered your village. You killed Morrik and his whore. So I’d say we’re even, wouldn’t you?”

  He doesn’t mention Lyara. He thinks Sylas killed the two Sualtier.

  Sylas’ fingers twitch, his entire body bracing for battle.

  “Let’s finish this,” he hisses.

  “Gladly.”

  Rasha Vane raises a single finger, and with one swift motion, he rips the water whips from Sylas. The liquid reforms, slithering over his skin, gathering at his fingertip like a shimmering, charged mist—before dissolving entirely.

  “I’ll make your death quick.”

  He launches forward, hurtling toward Sylas.

  But Sylas doesn’t move.

  He stands still, defenseless, unmoving. He accepts his fate.

  No! I can’t let this happen!

  The Thought Weaving! The Thought Weaving! I have to… do something!

  I see his face in my mind’s eye. Not the Sylas I know, but the child. The boy with the sorrowful eyes.

  And then, I see the Sylas of today.

  Hoping my actions are not in vain, I mimic the movements of my doppelganger from the vision. I place my hands on Sylas’ head, feeling the warmth of his skin. I close my eyes.

  Please, please, PLEASE!

  I slowly draw my hands back. And then I see them.

  Silver threads.

  They emerge from Sylas’ head, fine and shimmering like moonlight on still water. In the corner of my eye, I spot Rasha Vane—he is moving slower.

  Have I… altered time?

  I stare at the threads between my hands and Sylas. A soft glow surrounds them, radiating a gentle warmth. The energy pulses faintly, almost like a heartbeat.

  But… what do I do now?

  My thoughts race. Among all the memories before me, one stands out. One that is different from the rest.

  Something significant.

  Something that reveals the true meaning of my power.

  “YOU BASTARD!”

  A furious scream shatters the moment, and I flinch.

  Time resumes its normal flow.

  And Sylas—Sylas is no longer standing in front of me.

  My gaze snaps to Rasha Vane. His mask is torn. The entire left side of his face is exposed—marred by a burning, gaping wound.

  A firebrand.

  His skin is reddened, blackened, twisted by sudden heat.

  He bares his teeth in rage.

  “You were pretending all along!” His voice trembles. “How long have you been able to control fire?!”

  My eyes find Sylas.

  He stands with trembling hands, staring at his own fingers as if they don’t belong to him.

  He doesn’t understand what just happened.

  But I… I do.

  For the first time, I possess the knowledge that everyone seeks.