The Thornvault Accord - Part 3

Vaelin stood atop the high ramparts of Black Hollow Citadel, wind slicing across the stone like judgment. The chill did not bother him. It rarely did anymore. Below, a city moved with mechanical precision, smokestacks churned gray trails into a pale sky, and soldiers in mirror-polished black armor marched in perfect formation around a central spire where laws were carved not in ink, but in blood and steel.

This was his domain. His legacy.

And he felt nothing.

Or… not nothing. There was a cold itch behind his heart, like something just out of reach—a name, a sound, a memory struggling against the current of time. He could not name it, but it echoed in quiet moments like this.

They called him the Hollow Blade now. The last of the old Nightblades who had embraced iron and law over shadow and silence. He had outlawed magic. He had erased the rogue circles. He had crushed rebellions.

He had won.

So why did he feel like a ghost inside his own skin?

A door opened behind him. The familiar dry shuffle of feet.

Tarnel. His spymaster. Thin as a nail, robed in layers of ash-gray velvet that always smelled faintly of wet ink and grave dust.

“My lord,” Tarnel rasped, bowing slightly. “A situation in the east quarter. The rebels moved again.”

“They’re desperate,” Vaelin murmured, his voice like broken glass. “Let them burn themselves out.”

Tarnel hesitated. “They follow a witch now. One we thought dead. A flameweaver. Her magic… matches.”

Vaelin turned.

“Matches what?”

Tarnel’s milky eyes flicked toward the city. “The Thornvault signature. The same fireprint we recorded from the Rift of Embers ten years ago.”

“Impossible,” Vaelin said, frowning. “That Rift was sealed.”

“Then history is lying again,” Tarnel muttered. “They call her the Ember. But the records name her Elira Flameweaver.”

The name hit him like a blow to the ribs. Not pain, exactly. But pressure. Something ancient. Important. Familiar.

He stared into the wind. A single leaf—a red, thorned bloom—spiraled upward from the gardens far below, spinning against the current.

“I don’t know that name,” Vaelin said.

But his hand curled instinctively into a fist.

At night, the Citadel breathed differently. Its halls were silent, but not asleep. The stones whispered. The statues watched. Lanterns burned with cold light, untouched by wind or wax.

Vaelin walked without a destination. Without an escort. He passed through chamber after chamber of empty luxury, walls of carved obsidian, thrones with inlaid bone, suits of ceremonial armor polished to reflect your sins back at you.

In the long gallery of victories, he paused before a stone mural. His likeness was carved there: Vaelin, Blade of Dominion, sword in one hand, scales in the other. Beside him, an erased figure, just the impression of robes, fire, and a face never finished.

But something in that pose… the way the unfinished figure stood close, almost shoulder to shoulder…

He reached out to touch the carving.

Pain bloomed in his palm.

A memory, not his, but almost, screamed into being. A battle in the rain. A voice crying his name. A spell breaking in his arms. And a hand slipping away…

He staggered back, breath ragged.

He looked at his palm.

A rose-shaped scar glimmered faintly in the skin before fading into nothing.

She was brought in chains—her wrists glowing with nullmetal shackles, eyes defiant despite the cuts on her cheek.

She walked like a queen.

Elira stood in the throne hall with her head high. She took in the room, the soldiers in formation, the gray-clad ministers, the statues of vaelinic victories. Her gaze landed on him last.

Her breath caught.

Vaelin stepped down from the throne. He hadn’t worn his blade. A strange instinct told him he wouldn’t need it.

“Elira Flameweaver,” he said flatly. “You lead a rebellion against the order I’ve built.”

She tilted her head. “The order you built was a tomb. I’m here to open it.”

“You break the laws I swore to enforce.”

“You wrote those laws after forgetting who you were.”

“I am who I need to be.”

Her voice dropped. “Then what’s the rose doing on your palm?”

Vaelin said nothing.

“Don’t remember me, do you?” she said. “That’s the cruelty of the Thornvault. It makes you forget the truth in favor of what makes sense.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“Because the truth would break you.”

He stepped closer, and for a moment, just a breath, something flickered in his expression. Uncertainty.

“You think I’m lying,” she said quietly. “Fine. Let me prove it.”

She raised her shackled hands and whispered a spell under her breath.

The guards rushed forward, but the spell had no target; it simply painted the air with flickers of light.

A memory-illusion.

Two figures under a starlit tree. A sword. A kiss. An oath whispered in fire-tongue:

"If time steals you from me, I will carve our love into fate itself."

His face.

Her voice.

The spell faded.

Vaelin’s knees nearly buckled.

Later, in his private chambers, he tore apart every drawer and shelf. Behind a false panel in the wall, he found a small lacquered box. Inside: a single rose made of black glass. Etched on its petals, a name.

Elira.

He dropped it.

But the rose didn’t shatter. It pulsed.

When he touched it, a single word exploded into his mind like a scream:

"Remember."

He returned to her cell at midnight.

Elira sat on the stone bench, humming a lullaby he didn’t know but somehow did.

“Why does everything feel wrong when I see you?” he asked.

“Because you’re wearing armor over an open wound,” she said. “And your soul remembers the pain.”

He held up the rose-shaped pendant he’d found. Her eyes welled instantly.

“You gave this to me,” he said, voice shaking.

“I did. You wore it into the Thornvault when we chose to go after the rogue Nightblade. You said it would help you remember.”

“It didn’t work.”

“No. But you did. Part of you held on.”

He sat beside the bars.

“Who was I… to you?”

She leaned forward, pressing her palm to his.

“You were the blade I trusted. The storm I danced with. The man who taught me that love wasn’t a weakness.”

“And now?”

“Now…” she breathed, “you’re the man who could still save us both.”

Their hands touched, and between them, the pendant sparked.

Light flooded the room, warm and red and full of truth. The walls cracked with old magic. And for a heartbeat, their shared oath echoed again.

“Wherever time takes us… I will find you.”

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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