Chapter 13 Remnant

Chapter 13 Remnant
A sigh slipped from her nose. “Fine.” She rolled the map away and drew out a smaller scroll. No illustrations. Only dense script. “According to the legend I never read aloud at the altar…”
She walked toward the window. Light brushed her profile. The edges of her white robe glowed gold.
“When Hannan and Zaharel pulled at Vessaryn,” she said, “one fleck of the Cradle’s contents fell to the world. Right at the border of Caeloria and Velyndor. The ground split. The air warped. It became a tear in the fabric. A hollow. Nyxthrad.”
The Hollow Night.
“Velyndor raged,” she continued. “Their kings believed Hannan dragged the Cradle away, leaving them barren. Zaharel… offered compensation. Not with light. With darkness that moved.” She glanced at me, checking if I remained with her. 
I nodded, though every sentence felt heavier.
“They called to Nyxthra through Zaharel,” she said. “They poured their fury into the already broken land. From the Cradle’s spilled remnants, Velyndor’s rage, and Zaharel’s night, creatures formed that did not fully belong to this world.”
Vyrkath: an obsidian dragon breathing black fire. Sangrael: a forest vampire with green-bloom skin. Gravemorne: a moss-covered stone giant. Morvane: a corpse-walker with vacant eyes and poison blood.
The Cursed Kin.
“So Nyxthrad isn’t just a curse,” I whispered. “It’s a wound. A wound from the Cradle.”
“A wound that doesn’t close,” she said. “Every time Velyndor grows angry, every time they call on Zaharel, the wound splits wider. Every creature born from it carries a fragment of the Cradle… tainted by darkness.”
“Why didn’t Hannan seal it?”
The question cut sharper than intended. She studied me, and in her gaze lived something that didn’t fully trust the god she taught.
“Because even Hannan has no full authority over something created by the First Breaths,” she said at last. “That is the one truth the gods agree on. They are guardians. Not owners.”
A pulse beat beneath my shoulder blade. A flicker of gold inside, like a finger tapping from within.
“And Zaharel?” My voice dropped. “He let them out. Morvane. Vyrkath. All of them.”
“Zaharel was never given the duty to guard anything,” the priest said. “He only… opens doors. Humans decide what steps through.”
A thin laugh slipped out of me. Bitter. “You’re making me feel better.”
“That isn’t my job.” She returned to the table and tapped the tome’s cover. “My job is making sure that when the six kingdoms draw close again for the Rite and its agreements, the princess of Caeloria isn’t asleep in a corner believing the world ends at Thaldrun’s walls.”
My brow lifted. “You’re saying the six kingdoms might come together again?”
“The Rite of Light’s Unification isn’t just a birthday celebration and music,” she said. “When envoys arrive from Tharvane, Mirenor, Lysandrel, maybe even Asterra, they’ll bring stories. New maps. And…” her head lowered slightly, eyes locking on mine. “…rumors. Some claim the Remnant of Vessaryn is stirring again. Some swear they’ve felt Aeshar breathe across the desert. Others vow they saw Nyxthra spread his arms above the sea.”
My lungs tightened. “And Caeloria?” I asked. “What does Caeloria want from the Remnant?”
“Depends on who you ask.” The priest gave a small shrug. “The king will say he wants to protect his people. The council will say they want Nyxthrad sealed forever. And the girl sitting across from me might want to tear every wall down and ask the Cradle herself what freedom means.”
I tried not to smile. “You know me too well.”
“You grew up under my nose. You stole your first scripture before you could read, and you bit my hand when I tried to take it back.”
“You pulled it away from me,” I shot back. “I was defending myself.”
She clicked her tongue. “I borrowed it because you were seconds away from ripping the page.”
“Still legitimate self-defense.”
For the first time that morning, a thin smile tugged at her mouth. Then it vanished.
“Write,” she ordered. “Write the names. The First Breaths. Vessaryn. The six kingdoms. You may roll your eyes, you may run to the Night Castle and read about enemy sentries kissing on staircases, but today you will not forget this.”
I lowered my head and touched the quill to the empty page.
Aeshar. Thalen. Virel. Nyxthra. Vessaryn. Caeloria. Velyndor. Tharvane. Mirenor. Lysandrel. Asterra.
Black ink soaked into the fibers. My hand moved, but something beneath my skin moved with it. Something gold. Something impatient.
“If… hypothetically. Only hypothetically. Someone carried a fragment of the Remnant inside them without knowing… what would the priests do?” I murmured, not lifting my head.
The room held its breath.
I felt his gaze press against the back of my skull. It lingered.
“The old texts,” she said at last, “say they must be cleansed. Burned, if necessary. That is the word they chose.”
I knew. I’d read those lines myself in the Night Castle. Strange light in the blood. Purification.
“But you?” she added.
I lifted my face. Her eyes met mine. Something stern lived there. Beneath it, something softer. Something he never used at the altar.
“Me?” I echoed.
“I’ve cared for you since before you could speak your own name,” she said. “If I saw the breath of the First Ones inside you, Princess… I would tell you to sit straighter, study harder, and make sure that when the world comes to collect, you know exactly who you call. Hannan. Zaharel. Or yourself.”
My ribs tightened around my heart. “So you wouldn’t—”
“I would slap anyone who tried to tie you to a post,” she cut in, voice sharp, almost annoyed, like someone scolding burnt bread. “Then I’d tell you to stop climbing the walls at midnight. Because if Zaharel is paying attention to you, I don’t want him thinking I’m helping.”
My mouth opened, closed, opened again. A laugh escaped me. Short. Cracked. But something loosened in my chest.
“All right,” I said. “I will… try not to climb the walls.”
“Try.” She shook her head, though relief flickered in her eyes. “That’s progress.”
I looked back down at the page. The words stared up at me.
Vessaryn.
Nyxthra.
Zaharel.
Outside the window, the sky had climbed higher, the light sharpening into gold. And somehow, the morning felt shifted too. As if somewhere above us, someone moved a vessel lost to the world.
For the first time in a history lesson, I didn’t think about escape routes. I didn’t think about windows, walls, or horses in the stables.
Only the Cradle in the dark, the six kingdoms hunting each other inch by inch, and the dragon breath I heard in my dream… a sound that, now, I realized might not belong solely to Nyxthrad.
Maybe to something older.
Something waiting for someone to knock.