The air shimmered like heat on stone.
When Elara opened her eyes, she was somewhere else. The scent hit her first — old ash and moon-bloom, mixed with something ancient and sorrowful.
The ruins of Vel Ashen stood before her, half-swallowed by the forest, half-frozen in time.
Once, this place had been a sanctuary of magic. Now, it looked like a corpse that hadn't realized it was dead. Thorn-covered towers leaned into the sky like begging fingers. Bridges of fractured crystal spanned chasms lined with whispers. The sky above was dusky even though it should've been morning.
Elara stepped forward.
The mirrored flute pulsed faintly at her hip.
At first, the city was silent.
No animals. No birds. Only the slow sigh of wind through broken stone.
She passed murals carved into walls, their paint still strangely vibrant despite the decay. Witches and scholars, children and beasts, dancing in circles of light. And always — always — a great tree in the center, roots curling through every scene like veins.
The murals ended in fire. Scorch marks. Cracks.
And blood.
Elara's stomach twisted. She touched one of the carvings — a woman cloaked in shadow with antlers of bone, eyes burning violet.
Morgwyn.
But this Morgwyn was smiling.
She looked… alive.
Not feared.
Not broken.
Not yet.
A sound startled her — the scrape of claws on stone.
Elara spun around.
Nothing.
"Play the flute," she whispered to herself. "Thorne said to play the flute."
She lifted it to her lips and blew.
The note was clear, high — and strange. It shimmered in the air like a ripple in water. As it echoed, the city responded.
Ghost-light flared across the path. Runes awakened.
And then she saw them.
Echoes.
Not quite ghosts — more like imprints. Shadows of the past, reliving old days. Children ran laughing down a long-faded path. Witches debated atop towers that no longer stood. A familiar silver-haired man — Thorne, but younger — danced in spirals with energy flickering from his fingertips.
They didn't see her. They didn't hear her.
They were memories.
And they hurt to watch.
She wandered deeper.
The path brought her to a temple in the shape of an open eye, half-crushed by a collapsed dome. Moonlight filtered through the cracks.
Inside, someone was waiting.
Not a memory.
Not an echo.
But something real.
She felt it before she saw it — a chill up her spine, the feeling of being observed by something that knew you.
"Welcome, child of breath," a voice rasped.
She turned sharply.
A figure sat among the rubble, wrapped in decaying robes, their skin like parchment stretched over bones. Their eyes glowed blue-white, lidless, weeping mist.
"You're not… alive," Elara whispered.
"No. But not dead, either. I am the Memoriae — the keeper of Vel Ashen's truth."
Elara stepped forward cautiously. "Then tell me. Why was I drawn here? Why did Thorne send me alone?"
The Memoriae tilted their head.
"To remember what the witch won't."
They raised a hand and the temple darkened. Images flared across the cracked walls:
Morgwyn, younger, laughing, sitting among students — a teacher of magic, not a monster.
Thorne beside her, arguing passionately. They were close — too close. Something deeper passed between them.
A third figure stood in the shadows. A woman cloaked in gold — her face familiar.
"Elara?" she whispered. "Is that—?"
The Memoriae nodded. "Your ancestor."
"My… what?"
"Elara Wynn. The Wynn bloodline ran deep in Vel Ashen. Loyal to Morgwyn. Loyal to the city. Loyal to magic."
Elara's hands trembled. "Then why did everything fall?"
The vision shifted.
The golden woman knelt before the high council of Vel Ashen, arguing against a growing threat. Her voice was silenced. Morgwyn stood beside her — furious, ignored.
Then: fire. Betrayal. Morgwyn wielding impossible power, wrathful and broken.
Vel Ashen collapsed.
The golden woman died.
"Elara," said the Memoriae, "you are her echo. Your magic carries a pain that never healed."
Tears welled in her eyes.
"I don't understand. If Morgwyn loved her… if we're connected—why does she push me away?"
"Because she sees the wound she couldn't close. The trust she broke. The future she failed."
"I want to fix it."
The Memoriae leaned closer.
"Then become what she never had: someone who stays, even after the ruin."
They reached into their tattered robe and withdrew a single shard of crystal, shaped like a teardrop.
"This was once the heart of Vel Ashen's tree. Return it to her. She'll know what it means."
Elara accepted it with reverence.
"Thank you."
"One more thing," they whispered.
"Elara Wynn, child of both silence and song — you carry more than blood. You carry choice. When the stars crack and the gods awaken, remember this:
To save the witch… you must become the fire she fears."
Elara stepped back out into the ruins.
The city hummed around her, no longer dead, no longer asleep. The echoes watched her — some smiling, some weeping. One reached out — a child with wide eyes, no older than Sari.
"Will you sing us whole again?" the child asked.
Elara squeezed the flute in her hand.
"I'll try."
As she stepped onto the spiral path to return, the wind shifted.
A new scent.
Smoke.
Blood.
She turned.
And saw a cloaked figure watching her.
Not an echo. Not a ghost.
Something alive.
The figure's eyes gleamed crimson from beneath the hood.
"Elara Wynn," they said softly. "We've been waiting."
Then vanished.
END OF CHAPTER 7