Chapter 69

I spent most of the day repairing the keep. Using my magic, I buried the dragons - deep, far from the walls. After everything I’d been through, controlling my mana felt… easier. More intuitive. Like something inside me had finally clicked into place. I made a mental note to talk to Nanders about it when I had the chance.

I rebuilt the walls, reforged the gate, reset the doors, and cleared the fallen trees from the slopes. Stone knit itself together under my will. Wood straightened. Iron remembered what it was supposed to be.

Mirri, Grams, and the children went to my demesne to check on the crops. After the storm that had raged there during my fight with Brand - and the near-cataclysm in the Interstitium - we weren’t sure what would be left. The demesne had always been resilient, but even it had limits.

Evening found me atop the watchtower.

I’d set Adhaneth upright in the center of the open-air platform, balanced perfectly on its end. I sat on the low stone wall that ringed the tower, legs dangling over the edge, watching the sky darken and the first stars bleed through the twilight.

After nearly half an hour, the staff shimmered.

Silver motes drifted from its length like embers on a breeze, gathering and unfolding until she stood before me once more.

She was an inch or two shorter than I was. Her armor gleamed silver-white, every plate etched with her sigil - three feathers joined at the quills. Great feathered wings spread from her back, a silvery fan nearly fifteen feet from tip to tip when fully extended. Her long hair cascaded down her shoulders, each strand catching the light with a metallic sheen, as if spun from precious wire.

All of it stood in stark contrast to her charcoal-gray skin.

Her eyes were dark, but gentle - kind in a way that felt maternal rather than distant. A heart-shaped face softened her features, lending warmth to what might otherwise have been severe. Her lips were pitch black, the same shade as her eyes, not painted - simply so.

She was toned without being bulky, strong without looking hard. What skin showed through the gaps in her armor was flawless. Her breasts were modest, her hips a little wider - balanced and grounded. Taken together, she was femininity and strength and safety given form.

The wait had given me time to think. To brace myself for this conversation. I was grateful for her patience.

I patted the wall beside me.

She sat stiffly, like someone newly reacquainted with having a body. Her wings flexed once, twice, slowly opening and closing as if she were testing her balance. After a moment, she settled and looked at me.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “For yesterday. I don’t think I would’ve made it out without you.”

“I have no doubt you would have,” she replied. “Though your battle with the Myrddin would have been… considerably more difficult.” She paused. “You have questions.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” I said. “I guess I’ll start with the obvious one. Why didn’t you appear sooner?”

“I was asleep.”

Her voice was flat - the answer simple.

“For how long?”

“I’m not certain,” she said. “I have memories. Or dreams. Or memories shaped like dreams. I can’t tell which were real.”

“What’s the last thing you do remember?”

“War,” she said softly. “I lost my children. My betrothed. So many friends. I was wounded. And I was tired.”

“I’m sorry.” It felt inadequate, but it was all I had. I gave her a moment. “Legends say you’re a rib pulled from Miralis. Yveth called you an old bone. If this isn’t too insensitive… what are you?”

She snorted.

It wasn’t angry. Or cruel. Just sharp with derision - and oddly human. Cute, in a way I hadn’t expected.

“I’m sure Miralis enjoyed that story,” she said. “She never liked me. As for Yveth…” Her voice softened. “She likely thought me dead. She has changed since we last spoke. Arthyr’s **** nearly broke her. Perhaps it did.”

“You knew Arthyr?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “He was my betrothed. Yveth’s as well. And Miralis’. Caelith’s. Veythra’s. Even Solmira fancied him, though she would never admit it.” A sad smile touched her lips. “He carried so much love within him.”

She met my eyes. “You remind me of him. In many ways.”

I swallowed.

“As for what I am…” She exhaled slowly. “There is no name. I am the first and the last.” Her gaze searched mine. “I am the mother of the Myrddin.”

I stared. I blinked. I opened my mouth, then shut it.

The mother of the Myrddin.

“They were not always like… what they are now,” she said, sorrow threading every word. “Once, they were joyful. Peaceful. Loving. The world was theirs. They built wonders. Sang songs. Had children of their own.” Her eyes shimmered. “I was proud.”

“Then fear crept in. Greed. Hatred. They poisoned the world. Killed all who were not like them. And when there were none left who were different…” Her voice cracked. “They declared each other different.”

“They fought each other. Killed each other.”

“I locked them away before they could finish destroying themselves. They cursed me. Hated me. Wanted **** against the one who gave them life. They bargained with the original chaos - traded their souls for power. When they broke free, I couldn’t stop them. Their rage flooded the world.”

“Until Arthyr,” she said. “He stood against them. Protected the people. Made hard choices that saved the world. I hated to see my children suffer… and die. I loved my children… but I chose him.” Tears slipped free. “They would have destroyed everything.”

“Together we sealed them away again. The price was so high.” Her voice trembled. “Arthyr. Caelith. Veythra. Serkhalya. Willam. Duncane. Alyssan. Clarissea. So many others.”

“When my heart and body were broken, I slept. I never meant to wake.”

She looked at me, eyes glistening with grief.

“But when I felt my children clawing at the world again, I woke.” Her voice shook. “I could not let them undo everything after I had already sacrificed so much. So many”

She wiped at her eyes.

“That,” she said quietly, “is what I am.”

I wrapped my arms around Adhaneth. I didn’t know what else to do.

The weight of what she’d endured - the loss of so many, the horror of sealing her own children away, the endless what-ifs that must have haunted her sleep. The guilt. The responsibility. The knowledge that **** she could have made would ever have been clean. It was too much to grasp, let alone carry.

She leaned into the embrace and folded her arms and wings around me. Her tears fell freely, darkening my shoulder, but she didn’t sob. She simply grieved, quietly and completely, and we stayed like that for a long while as the night settled around us.

At last she drew back and brushed the tears from her eyes, steadying herself.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. But I’m here - if you want to talk. Or if you need a hug. Or just a shoulder to cry on.”

She smiled at me then, small and sincere. “I may take you up on that.”

* * *

“I fear Master Slatemourn may have been right,” Elise said one morning after breakfast.

I was still trying to determine whether she owned more than one dress. Every time I saw her, she looked exactly the same - simple white gown, pristine and unwrinkled, white hair braided with meticulous precision. Not a strand ever seemed out of place. It was as if she reset herself each night.

“About what?” I asked.

“The tower is becoming unstable.” Her pale gaze drifted upward.

I followed it to the stained-glass ceiling - an image of a robed woman holding a book. Sunlight filtering through colored panes. Dark smudges marred the glass now. Dust. Debris. Rubble from the shattered upper floors resting above it like a slow, inevitable weight.

Now that I’d seen the exterior of the tower, the geometry bothered me. The library rose five stories. The tower itself had soared far beyond that. How had sunlight ever reached this glass from inside? It didn’t make sense.

“I’m surprised the glass didn’t shatter,” I said.

“My master used only the finest materials,” she replied, pride warming her otherwise even tone. “Each pane was magically reinforced. The tower was designed to endure centuries - storms, siege, decay, elemental ****.” Her voice dimmed, frustration slipping through the cracks. “It appears a dimensional rift was not among the anticipated threats.”

That was fair.

“Regardless,” she continued, smoothing her expression back into composure, “I would prefer to relocate the books. Their preservation is paramount. Your demesne should prove adequate.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “You were pretty adamant about not moving anything when those guys showed up.”

She nodded once. “In the moment, I did not properly assess the tower’s structural condition. I was unprepared for guests. And they became… insistent after I mentioned the Myrddin.”

“Did they say why they came?”

“Master Crowhurst stated they received a report of the Myrddin and came to investigate.”

I frowned. “I thought you said there weren’t any settlements nearby. How did they hear about it - and get here in a day?”

Another trap? Another thread pulled by Brand before his demise?

“There are no nearby settlements,” she assured me calmly. “As to how they learned of the Myrddin, I cannot say. However, it is possible they possess advanced dimensional transit magic. Such techniques would allow rapid traversal across great distances.”

“Alright,” I said with a sigh. “We can start moving books whenever you’re ready.”

* * *

Moving the books was a herculean task. There had to be over two hundred thousand of them - ancient tomes, brittle scrolls, stitched folios thick with dust and memory. Elise insisted on cataloging every single one before it left the tower. Title. Author. Condition. Shelf lineage. Notes on marginalia. Nothing escaped her scrutiny.

Only after she recorded it would we step it into my demesne, where the books drifted from our hands and floated toward their assigned shelves as if guided by invisible librarians.

I didn’t control the system. I wasn’t even sure I could.

More than once, Elise would narrow her pale eyes at a book mid-flight, reach out, and pluck it from the air.

“No,” she would say sharply. “Third row. Left alcove. Proto-Thaumaturgical theory, not Pre-Imperial historiography.”

The book would pivot obediently and glide to the correct location.

Strangely, whatever unseen **** moved them seemed to accept her authority without question.

The others kept their distance and wouldn’t come within a hundred feet of her unless absolutely necessary. The unease she radiated was hard to ignore - like standing too close to the edge of a cliff in the dark.

“It’s because she’s a void-mage,” Mirri said one afternoon over lunch, glancing toward the library. “That feeling? It’s instinct. Your body telling you she’s dangerous. She’s constantly absorbing the mana around her.”

“Is that why I feel a weird tug every time I touch her?” I asked. “Like something’s pulling at me? Is she draining my mana?”

Mirri shrugged and took another bite of bread. “Maybe. I’m not touching her.”

“You know, she’s not that bad,” I shot back. “Yeah, the vibe takes some getting used to. But she’s genuinely kind. She’s brilliant. And she’d never even had a hug before a few days ago.”

Mirri’s cheeks pinked, guilt softening her features. “I know. I’m sorry.” She looked down at her plate. “I’ll… try to bring her cookies or something. I don’t know what she’s been through, but she shouldn’t be ostracized just because of how she was born.”

I pulled her into a hug and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you. You don’t have to be best friends. Just give her a chance.”