The wax seal was unfamiliar to most.
But Elric recognized it instantly.
A serpent curled into a circle—not the Root's twisted mark, but something older, cleaner.
The crest of House Varnell.
A line erased during the early Root revolts. Supposedly extinct. Supposedly buried.
He broke the seal.
The parchment was thick. Ink, dark as dried blood. The handwriting flowed like a royal scribe's.
> Elric Taran,
The throne has not spoken since the Pact cracked. But the blood remembers what the crown denied. You are not the only one they exiled.
Come to the Hollow Spire. South of the Forgotten Hills.
A choice awaits. Not for rule. For revival.
—Varnell
Elric stared at the signature.
There was no first name. No title. Just the family mark.
---
Behind Him
Sylas stood with arms folded, still processing his own past. He read the letter over Elric's shoulder and let out a breath.
"That's not a trap," he muttered. "It's worse."
Lira glanced between them. "How bad?"
"Elric was exiled," Sylas said. "But House Varnell was erased. If they've survived, they've done it in silence and shadow. That kind of invitation isn't a message—it's a test."
Elric folded the letter carefully. "Then let's pass it."
---
Elsewhere: In the Grove
Serenith stood beneath the Hollowveil Tree, eyes closed.
A second figure stood behind her—hooded, silent.
"You felt him speak," she said.
"Yes."
"Then you understand."
The figure nodded.
"Then you also know he cannot carry the seed alone," she said. "You must follow."
The figure pulled back her hood.
Her face bore the same silver eyes as Serenith—but younger. Sharper. Familiar.
> "I remember Sylas."
---
That Evening
They made camp just outside Redhollow. The trees had gone still, though some glowed faintly with lingering threads of restored memory.
Marin worked on translating the map from the letter.
Roran and Neera stood watch.
Sylas sat near the edge of the firelight, his back to the group.
Elric walked over, carrying two mugs of tea.
"Want to talk about it?" he asked.
"No," Sylas said. "But I probably should."
He took the mug. Didn't drink it.
"That crest—Varnell. They weren't just royalty. They were keepers of divergence. They studied what didn't fit. And when the Council pushed the Root onto every bloodline, Varnell refused. They paid for it."
Elric nodded slowly. "And you knew them?"
"I knew their archivist," Sylas admitted. "She saved my notes when I was cast out. She told me one day they'd matter."
Lira approached.
"We heading to this Hollow Spire?" she asked.
"Yes," Elric said.
"Then we'll need to move before the Council tracks the messenger."
Sylas stood.
"They already did. I saw the mark."
Elric raised an eyebrow. "What mark?"
Sylas pointed to the wax seal.
On the back—barely visible—was a second imprint.
Not House Varnell.
The Council's flame sigil.
---