Chapter 24 THE GIRL WHO SPOKE IN ECHOES
They didn’t keep Liora in chains this time.
Not because they trusted her—but because whatever she had walked through to get here had already chained her enough.
She rested in one of the solar rooms, sitting cross-legged on the window ledge, staring out at the pale winter sky. She looked like she belonged there and didn’t—all at once.
Aria stood in the doorway, unseen.
Roman was already in the room—leaning against the far wall, arms folded, watching Liora with the same wary, searching expression he had worn since she spoke of his father’s choice.
Kael stood between them and the door, arms crossed, tense as a drawn bow.
Seris sat at a desk in the corner, quill hovering over her page but not writing.
As if she knew some stories needed to unfold before they could be recorded.
Liora finally spoke—without turning.
“You’re both afraid of remembering,” she said.
Roman exhaled sharply. “You sound very certain.”
“I walked through the ruins where you were children,” Liora said. “I can still hear the echoes when the wind is right.”
Roman stiffened. “There are no ruins.”
“There are,” Liora said. “Only—the map pretends they don’t exist.”
Aria stepped into the room.
Liora turned then—not surprised. Not startled.
Just aware.
“You’re here,” she murmured.
Aria came closer. “Are you always so certain of everything?”
Liora’s lips curved in a sad half-smile. “Only of things that hurt.”
Roman’s voice softened, but his body stayed tense. “You said the Caller didn’t send you. You said you weren’t his weapon.”
Liora nodded. “I’m not.”
“But you carry something of his,” Roman finished.
She didn’t deny it.
She reached inside her worn cloak—and slowly pulled out a folded piece of cloth.
Not parchment.
Torn fabric, faded, scorched in places.
And at its center—visible, even from Aria’s distance—
Was writing.
Not just any writing.
Her mother’s handwriting.
Aria felt the ground tilt.
Her fingers curled into her palms.
Roman straightened.
Liora held the cloth carefully, unfolding it like something alive.
“He sent this,” she said quietly. “Not as threat. Not even as warning.”
She looked right at Aria.
“He said it was a reminder.”
Aria lifted her chin. “Read it.”
Liora didn’t read it.
She handed it to her.
Aria stepped forward and took it.
The fabric was rough. Cold.
Like it had been pressed against snow.
Like someone had carried it across a frozen river.
She unfolded it fully.
It shook in her hands.
Not because it was fragile.
Because she was.
Roman stepped closer—but didn’t touch her.
Kael moved subtly—positioning himself where he could grab the cloth if it suddenly ignited, turned viscous, or bled.
Seris held her breath.
Aria read.
My little moon,
If you are reading this — we are too late.
Not too late to fight. Not too late to burn. Not too late to choose.
But too late for the world to pretend you are not already chosen.
They will try to tell you that power is what makes a Luna.
They are wrong.
Power makes weapons.
Choice makes Lunas.
One day, you will be standing where I stood — between fire and moonlight, between safety and sacrifice — between the crown they built for you, and the one you were born for.
Do not wear the wrong one.
And do not let him wear the wrong one, either.
—Elaria
The cloth slipped from Aria’s hands.
It didn’t fall.
Roman caught it.
Aria didn’t move.
She couldn’t.
She couldn’t even feel the floor under her feet anymore.
Liora’s voice came like mist.
“You see now,” she whispered. “It wasn’t the Caller who understood her—not fully. It wasn’t the priests. It wasn’t the kingdom. It wasn’t even the moon.”
She looked at Roman.
“It was their children.”
Silence.
Roman stepped toward Aria.
Slowly.
Carefully.
“Aria,” he said, voice low.
She didn’t move.
Her voice was barely breath.
“My mother knew all along,” she whispered. “Knew we were both—”
She didn’t finish.
Roman swallowed.
“She didn’t know how,” he said softly. “She didn’t know when. She only knew—”
“—that one day, it would matter,” Liora finished.
Aria looked at Liora.
“Why give it to me now?”
“Because now,” Liora said, voice trembling, “the Caller knows, too.”
Ice slid down Aria’s spine.
Roman’s eyes flashed.
“How?”
Liora hesitated.
Then she said the words that turned the air cold.
“Because last night,” she whispered, “the moon did not just watch you. It answered you.”
Kael straightened.
Seris finally wrote something—her quill nearly tearing the page.
Aria’s heart thudded.
“You mean—”
Roman finished quietly.
“He heard.”
Liora nodded.
“He heard her refuse.”
Aria's breath caught.
She remembered.
Standing beneath the bruised moon. Feeling it pressing in. Feeling it calling.
And telling it—
I am not yours.
Now, Liora said—
“He heard you choose yourself instead.”
“And he will not let that happen twice.”
Roman turned to Aria.
The storm in him wasn’t violent now.
It was focused.
“Aria,” he said, quiet but firm, “you cannot meet him unguarded anymore.”
“I don’t want to be guarded,” she murmured.
“I didn’t say guarded,” Roman said.
He stepped closer.
Close enough that his voice didn’t carry beyond her.
“I said—you don’t face him alone.”
Aria looked up.
Something flickered beneath Roman’s composed exterior.
Not fear.
Something stranger.
Something ancient.
Like he had felt this moment before—once, when fire and moonlight had mixed and everything in him had screamed to hold on—
Even when the world told him to let go.
Liora stepped back, quiet now.
Seris stopped writing.
Kael folded his arms and exhaled—like he had been holding his breath too long.
Aria did not nod.
She did something different.
She extended her hand—
And Roman took it.
Not like a king takes a hand.
Like a boy once did—
in firelight,
carrying a girl out of a tower,
before prophecy had names to give them.
And this time—
he didn't let go.