The sky above Noctisfall never truly changed, but something in the air had shifted.
Caelan noticed it the moment he stepped outside the wing Seraphyne had assigned to him. The ever-burning crimson sky seemed darker, less like twilight and more like a storm waiting to break. The marble beneath his feet felt colder. Even the distant towers of the capital's spires, which he had once found hauntingly beautiful, now loomed like sentinels with hidden eyes.
Seraphyne stood waiting in the hall, clad in her customary black and violet. She didn't speak as he approached—only turned and walked. He followed.
No guards. No words. Only their steps echoing through vast, ancient corridors.
They descended.
Down stairwells older than memory, past mosaics that whispered as they passed, through vault-like archways humming with unseen energy. The deeper they went, the more the architecture changed. Gone were the marble grandeur and high ceilings of the palace. Here, the walls narrowed and curved, forged of blackstone veined with scarlet crystal.
Finally, they reached an iron-bound gate flanked by statues of hooded figures, each carved with eyes sealed shut.
Seraphyne stopped. "This is where you go alone."
Caelan looked at her. "Why?"
"Because you must." Her voice gave no softness, only truth. "You will be expected. Answer honestly. Listen more than you speak. And above all—do not try to impress him."
The gate creaked open on its own.
Caelan stepped inside.
---
The chamber beyond was circular, vast, and impossibly quiet. Not even his footsteps made sound here. The walls were lined with towering shelves that bent and curled like ribs. Tomes floated midair, bound in chains, pages rustling without wind. Candles drifted by unseen will, illuminating nothing beyond a soft golden haze.
In the center stood a figure cloaked in velvet black, chains of silver looped across his shoulders and arms. He was tall and still, blindfolded in braided silver cloth. His skin was pale as paper, and his voice—when it came—was the scrape of thought across silence.
"You are the one the whispers name."
Caelan said nothing at first. Then, softly, "I think so."
The figure tilted his head. "A name is not the same as a soul. But I am not here for names."
"Who are you?"
"Highwarden Malvuron. Keeper of Blackspire. Voice of Midnight."
The words fell like the closing of a book.
"Come," he said, and gestured with one hand. "Speak."
---
Malvuron led him through corridors that curved impossibly, as if the spire they were in coiled inward forever. Books whispered. Statues watched without eyes. In one chamber, a quill wrote upon a scroll with no hand to guide it. In another, Caelan saw a mirror that did not reflect his image but showed a throne atop a mountain of ash.
"This place tests no strength," Malvuron said. "Only depth."
They stopped in a chamber of concentric circles, each inscribed with runes that glowed faintly as Caelan stepped inward.
Malvuron turned to him. "You carry a blood not of this world. And memories that are not yours. Do you believe this makes you special?"
Caelan hesitated. "No. Just… confused."
"Good. Arrogance blinds more effectively than shadow."
He began to ask questions.
Not about lineage. Not about prophecy.
But about dreams.
About sacrifice.
About what Caelan feared most, and what he would do if no one ever believed in him.
When Caelan tried to hide behind practiced answers, the runes dimmed.
When he told the truth—even uncertainty—they brightened.
Finally, Malvuron asked: "If you held a key that could shatter the world—or save it—would you use it before knowing which it would do?"
Caelan's throat tightened. "I don't know."
Malvuron smiled. "At last, something real."
---
He led Caelan to a sealed alcove at the chamber's center. A book hovered there, bound in obsidian and wrapped in blood-forged chains.
"The Veiled Record," Malvuron whispered. "It stirs only for those whose fate threads between life and ruin."
Caelan reached out. The moment his fingers touched the binding, a pulse like fire and ice surged through him. His vision blurred.
He saw a woman in silver armor with a sword of moonlight, kneeling before a throne of stone.
He saw a tree burning beneath a sky with two moons.
He saw himself, cloaked in shadow, screaming as his reflection wept.
Then it ended.
He gasped. Malvuron steadied him.
"You are not ready to read further."
Caelan looked at him, breathless. "Then why show me at all?"
"Because the world does not wait for readiness. It only waits for choice."
---
When Caelan returned to the surface, Seraphyne was waiting.
She did not ask what had happened. But after a long pause, she said, "You touched something."
He nodded. "I don't know if I was supposed to."
She answered without turning. "Nothing in Blackspire happens by accident."
They walked in silence.
Behind them, in the depths, Malvuron stood alone. His voice was barely audible, a breath against the dust:
"The heir remembers. The Veil thins. The dusk begins again."
---