The Thornvault Accord - Part 1

The fog clung low to the forest floor like spilled breath, curling around gnarled roots and swallowing bootsteps. Moonlight barely filtered through the canopy of blackwood branches above, their bark slick with silver dew and shadow. Somewhere ahead, the rogue Nightblade moved in silence, but Vaelin could sense him—just beyond the veil of perception, a ripple in the rhythm of the trees.

“This forest wasn’t on the map,” Elira muttered, her voice low. She flicked her fingers and a quiet shimmer of spell-light spiraled from her palm, barely enough to illuminate the next few feet. “Which usually means we’ve either crossed into something cursed… or fae.”

Vaelin gave a grunt. “I’d take a cursed tomb over the fae.”

“You say that every time we deal with the fae.”

“And I’m always right.”

A chill brushed the back of Elira’s neck, like unseen fingers parting her hair. The air shimmered oddly, warping around a fallen archway of stone half-devoured by bramble. Moss grew upward, against gravity. The scent of wet iron and blooming roses mingled with something more ancient—ozone, memory, and sorrow.

They crossed under the arch without speaking. The world shifted. Not like a step from one place to another—but like slipping into the dream someone else was having about a place. The colors deepened. Greens became impossibly vivid, shadows stretched long even though the moon overhead stood still. Time seemed to hold its breath.

Then he was there. The Nightblade.

He stepped from behind a crooked tree, expression unreadable beneath his mask. His cloak was torn, dark with blood. But he stood tall, waiting.

Vaelin drew his blade, movements measured. “You ran far, just to die tired.”

The Nightblade said nothing. Instead, he slowly raised a hand, fingers spread wide, and whispered a phrase in a language older than the wind.

The ground pulsed.

“Vaelin,” Elira said quickly, raising her free hand. Her magic flickered, then sputtered. “Something’s wrong. That spell wasn’t meant to strike us. It was meant to offer.”

Vines writhed up around their feet—not binding, not attacking, but curling like fingers extending a hand. Thorns shimmered with glassy light, pulsing softly like heartbeats. The forest leaned closer.

Then the Nightblade vanished.

Not fled. Not teleported.

Unmade.

Vaelin surged forward, but the roots pulled him down, not forcefully—more like guiding a fall. Elira tried to throw a spell, but her voice caught. The world blurred. Their vision turned to petals and stormlight.

Vaelin awoke kneeling on cracked marble in a twilight court. Thorns coiled around broken columns. Above, the sky was purple and rimmed with gold, but the stars shifted with every breath, forming eyes, sigils, names. His sword lay beside him, unsheathed. The silence was immense, echoing like a cathedral.

Elira knelt opposite him. Her expression flickered with confusion, resolve, then fear.

They were not alone.

A figure emerged from the throne of tangled roots and vine—tall, antlered, wrapped in a mantle of bark and silk. A face of neither man nor woman. And when it spoke, the words came in echoes, like hearing one's thoughts voiced before they were formed.

“Two hearts. Two blades. One accord.”

Vaelin rose slowly. “What did you do to us?”

The fae smiled, mouth full of rose petals. “A bargain must balance. He made a pact. You entered the gate. Thus, the Accord is sealed.”

Elira stepped forward, eyes narrowed. “What bargain?”

“Time. Memory. Love. All commodities here.”

The fae raised a hand. A crown of thorned light appeared over Elira’s head. A shroud of shadow slid down Vaelin’s shoulders like armor.

“You will walk the year apart. In worlds born of your deepest truths. In one, the love that was lost. In the other, the love that never was.”

Vaelin’s knuckles tightened on his hilt. “And the cost?”

“One will forget. One will remember.”

“No,” Elira said immediately. “You don't get to twist our bond into a game.”

The fae only laughed—quiet and ancient, like the sound of wind moving through the bones of a forgotten god.

“A year of trials. Or an eternity lost. Choose.”

Before either could respond, the thorns surged upward. The marble shattered. The sky split.

And the world fell away.

Vaelin landed hard—on dirt and stone, the scent of blood thick in the air. War banners snapped overhead, painted in symbols of a kingdom he had once helped destroy. Soldiers bowed as he stood. “Commander,” they intoned.

He blinked. On his hip was a black-bladed sword he didn’t recognize, but it felt like his. A woman in shackles was dragged before him. Her hair dark, her stance proud.

“You are to execute the traitor,” a voice said at his ear. “Witchcraft and sedition.”

The woman looked up—and her eyes burned like Elira’s.

Except he had never met her before.

Elira woke beneath golden sheets, the morning sun warm on her skin. Her fingers bore rings of rulership. Servants waited with bowed heads. On her brow rested a crown of flame-shaped gold. She stepped to the mirror.

A queen stared back.

In the courtyard, her people chanted her name.

But beside her, the bed was cold. Always cold.

And her heart ached for someone she didn’t remember.

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All Parts of the Series

The Thornvault Accord Part 1

The Thornvault Accord Part 2

The Thornvault Accord Part 3

The Thornvault Accord Part 4

The Thornvault Accord Part 5