The Thornvault Accord - Part 2

Elira woke to the scent of roses.

Not the kind that grew wild near her cabin window, nor the dry, bitter perfume nobles bathed in to hide their greed. These smelled of memory—thick with honey and heartbreak. She opened her eyes to soft golden light spilling through carved windows. A breeze stirred silk curtains. Her bed was vast, draped in crimson sheets stitched with fire-thread. A crown rested beside her pillow, its shape reminiscent of a blooming flame.

The room was hers.

That much she knew instinctively, though she'd never seen it before. Its walls were etched with sigils in her own handwriting—some from spells she'd never written. A fire crackled quietly in the hearth, though the air was summer-warm. Beyond the balcony, a garden of blooming red thorns stretched endlessly under an amber sky.

She sat up, heart pounding. "Vaelin?"

No answer. Just the whisper of distant music, slow and mournful.

A knock at the door broke the silence. It opened before she answered. A servant entered, head bowed. She was fae-touched: eyes silver as moonlight, skin tinted like parchment left too long in the sun.

“High Flame,” the girl said reverently. “The council waits. Your people await the Blossom-Speech. Will you wear the golden mantle or the crimson today?”

Elira blinked. “The—what speech?”

The girl hesitated. “The Day of Ascent. When you banished the Silent Blade and took your rightful place. Today marks a decade since your crowning.”

Elira’s mouth went dry. She stood slowly and crossed the room to the mirror.

The woman who looked back was... her. But not.

This Elira had harder lines around her eyes, a gaze heavy with knowing. There was elegance in her stance, power in her presence. She looked like someone who’d learned to stand alone—and had stood that way for years.

Elira touched the mirror. “What did they do to us?” she whispered.

The council chamber was carved from rosewood and gold. Each advisor bowed low as she entered. Their faces were familiar in the way dreams often are—half-remembered, half-created. General Sael, a gruff old warrior with a steel eye. Mistress Jene, her former arcane mentor, now oddly deferential. They addressed her as “High Flame,” though no one dared speak of how she earned the title.

“We've quelled the uprising in the eastern quarter,” Sael reported. “But rumors of the Hollow Blade persist.”

Elira’s breath caught. “The what?”

“A masked duelist who fights like smoke. Impossible to catch. Rumor says he leaves roses where he strikes, with thorns blackened as pitch.”

She rose from her throne before she meant to. “I want him brought to me. Alive.”

The advisors exchanged glances.

Mistress Jene offered a soft warning. “You sentenced the Hollow Blade to exile ten years ago. If you pardon him now—”

“I did what?”

But no one answered. No one dared.

That night, in her private sanctum beneath the palace, Elira found a sealed letter, hidden behind a loose brick in the wall. It bore her crest, but the handwriting was hers—scrawled with urgency, not regality.

If you're reading this, the Thornvault has taken hold. This is not your world. Not truly. But it will tempt you, because it is shaped from what you could have been. Remember Vaelin. Remember the oaths we swore by fire and dusk. And beware the one who wears your face.

Below the signature was a rose—half-bloomed, petals bleeding red.

Elira stared at it long after the candle burned low.

Three nights later, the Hollow Blade arrived.

He was dragged into the throne room bound in enchanted chains, blood on his mouth but his chin high. He was tall. Worn. A cloak of black and grey. And when Elira stepped closer, the world tilted.

His face wasn’t Vaelin’s. Not exactly.

But his eyes were.

Recognition flashed there—and pain.

“You,” she breathed.

He chuckled bitterly. “Didn’t think you'd still be wearing my crown.”

“I don’t remember you.”

“That’s the cruelest part,” he said, smiling without joy. “You always said you’d find your way back.”

Elira’s pulse pounded in her ears. “Tell me the truth.”

He looked around the court. Guards watched from every shadow. Her advisors stood stiff and pale.

“No,” he said. “Not here.”

She made her decision faster than she thought a queen should.

“Everyone out.”

He bled on her floor. She poured wine—her hand shook less than she expected.

He sipped, winced. “Still sweet,” he said. “You never liked sweet wine.”

“I don’t remember what I liked.”

“I do.” He glanced at her, softer now. “You liked stories that ended badly. Said happy endings made you suspicious.”

She laughed despite herself. “That sounds like me.”

He reached into his cloak—slowly, carefully—and withdrew a charm. A thorn-shaped pendant.

She felt the pulse of her magic inside it. Fire and starlight, woven with blood and breath.

“You gave this to me,” he said. “When the Thornvault took you. When you chose to stay behind so I could escape.”

“That’s not possible. I’m still here.”

He nodded. “You chose this reality. Or the fae made you think you did.”

She clutched the pendant. “Then why do I feel like I lost something I can’t name?”

His smile turned sad. “Because love doesn’t care what the fae say. It remembers even when you don’t.”

She stared at him, heart aching. “Who are you?”

He looked at her like it hurt to answer.

“Vaelin.”

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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