Chains of the Forgotten Princess

The moment Elira gripped the ancient blade, it stirred.

Not with a shimmer of enchantment or hum of spellcraft, but with a storm.Of memories.Of blood-bound truths.Of centuries of silence suddenly unraveling in her veins.

Screams filled her ears—queens long dead, their voices rising in chorus. The clash of steel from wars lost to time. The sting of betrayal sealed behind royal walls. And threading through it all, one cry, over and over again:

Unchain the flame.

The hilt pulsed in her hand—warm at first, then burning. She gasped, gritting her teeth as her blood seeped into the carved runes along its grip. The blade drank it, eager, as if it had been starving.

Kael stepped forward, watching with guarded eyes. "Is it… alive?"

Elira didn't answer right away. She was staring into the edge—alive with glowing fire-veins and a spine that looked grown, not forged. Obsidian and root. Flame and memory.

"No," she murmured finally. "It remembers."

The runes on the blade shifted, forming syllables she didn't recognize—but somehow understood. Her blood did the reading, not her eyes.

"It's called Ashthorn," she said.

Kael raised an eyebrow. "Fitting."

But the moment offered no room to breathe. Behind them, the Tree of Mourning groaned. Its bark cracked, curling inward like a dying thing surrendering to time.

"We need to move," Kael said, grabbing her arm.

They turned to flee—but the stone stairs that had brought them down gave way with a thunderous crack. The path collapsed into rubble, sealing them in.

And then, through the settling dust, a voice slithered from above.

"Elira… Kael…"

Kael raised his sword. Elira lifted Ashthorn.

From the shadows emerged… not a beast. Not a threat.

A boy.

Or something that used to be one.

His skin was ashen white, veined with mirror-like cracks that shimmered faintly. His eyes were pools of silver, weeping shadows. Barefoot and shaking, he stumbled forward.

"Elira…" he whispered again, voice fragile as broken glass.

She stepped toward him, slow and cautious. "Who are you?"

"I was sent," he rasped. "To watch. To warn."

Kael stepped closer, tension in every line of his body. "By who?"

The boy's frame shuddered, like his body couldn't hold whatever lived inside him. "The one who never died."

Elira's heart skipped.

That phrase. She'd heard it once before—whispered in her dreams. In her mother's tears.

"I don't understand," she said softly.

The boy screamed.

A choking, rattling sound as darkness poured from his mouth, thick and violent. His body convulsed—and then shattered into dust.

Only silence remained.

And a single silver shard on the floor.

It whispered.

Kael reached for it, but Elira stopped him. "No. I need to see."

The moment her fingers touched it, the world tilted.

Visions slammed into her.

Another world—twisted, cold, reflected. A palace like hers, but darker. Empty. A throne still whole. And standing in the glass—a man cloaked in bloodlight, faceless but watching her.

Knowing her.

She staggered back, nearly dropping the shard. Kael caught her.

"What did you see?"

Elira's voice shook. "Another palace. Another me. That boy—he was caught between both worlds. And that man…" She glanced at Ashthorn, its runes flaring again. "He's waiting."

Before Kael could speak, the roots beneath them shifted—pulling back to reveal a tunnel lined in silver light. The ground guided them. Or maybe it was testing them.

They walked without speaking.

The air around them was different now. Heavier. Slower. Sound moved like water. Time felt thin.

Then—they reached it.

A mirror.

Not a shard. Not broken.

A tall obsidian mirror, freestanding in the center of a circular chamber. It pulsed with the same rhythm as Ashthorn.

Kael stepped in front of her instinctively. "This could be a trap."

"Or it could be the truth," Elira whispered.

Before either could move, the mirror shimmered.

And someone stepped out.

Elira gasped.

It was her.

But not.

This version wore a crown of twisted silver. Her gown was black, stitched with chains. Her eyes were hollow, as if they'd forgotten how to feel.

Behind her, the mirror-world bled through—ruined skies, stars in shackles, a broken Thandrel left in ash.

"Hello, me," the mirror-Elira said, smiling like someone who knew the punchline of a joke you didn't want to hear.

Kael lifted his sword. "What the hell is this?"

She ignored him. "I've waited a long time to see the version of me who broke the Binding Throne."

Elira lifted Ashthorn. "Why?"

"Because now you've let him in."

The smile twisted cruelly. "And you're going to need me if you want to survive him."

"You're not real," Elira snapped.

"Oh, I'm real enough," the reflection said, stepping closer. "I'm every choice you never made. Every pain you buried. Every power you turned away from."

Kael's voice was low and cold. "What do you want?"

"To offer you a choice," mirror-Elira said. "Join with me. Or watch as he unravels everything."

Elira stepped forward. "You keep saying he. Who is he?"

Silence.

Then, the mirror-Elira's voice dropped to a whisper.

"The first Thandrel.The king who chained the world to time.The one who never died."

The mirror pulsed behind her, and Elira caught a glimpse.

A figure—half flame, half shadow, bound in gold broken chains. Eyes like hollow stars. A mouth sewn shut with whispers.

"He wants the blade," her reflection said. "And if you don't give it to him…"

She leaned in, voice like a razor."…he'll take it. And when he does, not even your ashes will remember your name."

Then the mirror shattered.

Silver wind and shadow swallowed the chamber.

Elira dropped to one knee, breath catching like something sharp in her chest.

Kael was at her side instantly. "Are you alright? What was that?"

She stared at the space where the mirror had been. "A warning," she whispered. "Or a beginning."

As they turned to go, the walls of the chamber whispered again—

The First Thandrel wakes.

And in her hand, Ashthorn burned brighter than ever.