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    Chapter 92


    Memory Lane


    Strange, is it not?


    Relief, unbidden yet undeniable, settles within


    me—but beneath it coils guilt, winding tight as a serpent poised to strike.


    The sentient potato—an absurdity, yet somehow


    fitting—has confirmed my greatest fear: I cannot read their fate. And yet, why


    does relief linger, however faint? A contradiction, fragile as spun glass,


    balanced between solace and unease.


    The weight that pressed upon me, the oppressive


    shadow of the fallen monarch, has receded. His presence, once a vice upon my


    thoughts, now feels distant—a specter fading at the edges of perception. And


    Ember—no longer merely a demon girl but something more—has proven my suspicions


    true. Arthur, in his arrogance, sought to twist the threads of fate, to weave


    his own resurrection into the tapestry of the world. A marionette pulling at


    his own strings, trying to rise from death’s embrace.


    But fate is fickle.


    Grant, relentless as ever, shattered Arthur’s


    hold, wrenching control from his spectral grasp. A victory, earned in blood and


    defiance—yet it does not settle right. It lingers, hollow, discordant, as


    though a note in his triumph’s melody rings false.


    My gaze drifts to the timers—those ghostly


    etchings upon Ember and Sir Spudsworth, cruel markers of borrowed time. They do


    not tick. Suspended. Frozen. As though time itself hesitates, caught in some


    unseen snare.


    A shiver whispers along my spine. The thought


    unfurls, dark and insidious: Queen Isabella.


    Her magic lingers—thin as mist, sharp as thorns.


    Unseen fingers still twist the loom of fate. Though her form has vanished, her


    influence remains, woven into the very fabric of this realm. A presence unseen,


    yet unshakable. A shadow that refuses to fade.


    A discordant thought, sharp as fractured glass,


    slices through the stillness of my mind. The Blood Raiders. Their presence


    lingers here like a stain that refuses to fade, a whisper of violence woven


    into the air itself. The question rises, unbidden—did Mother falter? A flicker


    of doubt, brief as a shadow against the sun, chills my spine.


    No.


    Reason, cold and unwavering, quells the notion


    before it can take root. If there was one certainty in this world, it was my


    mother’s resolve. She wielded duty like a blade, precise and unyielding. To


    falter was beyond her.


    The silence thickens, pressing in, suffocating.


    An urge wells up—to break it, to hear something, anything, that might tether me


    to the present. I clear my throat, the sound barely more than a ripple against


    the still air.


    “Ember… I mean, Princess Ember,” I begin, my


    words measured, each one weighed before it leaves my lips.


    She snorts, a sharp sound that dispels the


    formality with ease. “Oh, cut the princess crap,” she says, voice edged with


    rebellion—frustrated, weary, yet unmistakably hers.


    Mr. Spuds, ever dutiful, offers a murmured


    protest. “Mi’Lady—”


    “Shut it, Spuds,” Ember interrupts, deadpan.


    A quiet chuckle slips past my lips, unbidden,


    ephemeral—a brief reprieve from the storm of my thoughts. “Right… Ember,” I


    correct, inclining my head slightly. “You mentioned… The Broker, was it? He’s


    Soul-Bound?”


    Her expression shifts, something guarded slipping


    away beneath reluctant understanding. “Yeah.” A pause. “He kept telling my dad


    they were alike. Soul-Bound.”


    A sigh escapes me, quieter than I expect, yet


    heavy with confirmation.


    So it is true.


    The fear that had lurked in the recesses of my


    mind takes shape, cold and immutable. The ruins, the creeping shadows, the


    unease thrumming beneath my skin—none of these are the true threat. Another


    Soul-Bound walks these lands, a being of vast and terrible power.


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    “But why?”


    "How the hell should I know?" Ember


    snaps, her frustration raw and unrestrained. It mirrors the turmoil inside me,


    a reflection of the chaos that churns beneath my composed exterior.


    I start, pulled back into the present as though


    the thread of my thoughts has been severed by her sharp words.


    "Apologies," I murmur, my voice soft, edged with regret. "Did I


    speak aloud?"


    "Yeah, well..." Ember answers, meeting


    my gaze. For a moment, an understanding flickers between us, unspoken but


    clear. "I get it. I’ve got the same questions, twisting in circles inside


    my head."


    "If only..." My words trail off,


    hanging in the air like a forgotten thought. "If only there were a way to


    stitch together the broken pieces of this puzzle."


    A quiet voice interrupts—smooth, yet carrying an


    unmistakable authority. "If I may..." Mr. Spuds offers, his eyes


    flicking between us, waiting for permission.


    I nod, a silent invitation. Ember gives a brief


    shrug in agreement, her expression unreadable.


    "If you would be so kind as to follow


    me..." Mr. Spuds suggests, his words gentle but firm.


    We fall in step behind him, moving deeper into


    the sanctum. The air grows thicker with each step, pulsing with a strange,


    almost palpable energy, as though the walls themselves are alive with ancient


    power. In the center of the chamber, a series of large portraits hangs on the


    walls, their frames dark and imposing. But these are no ordinary paintings. The


    figures within shift—blinking, moving, watching us with eyes that seem far too


    alive.


    "What... is this?" I whisper, awe


    slipping into my voice despite myself.


    "According to Shaq... the late Lady


    Shaq''Rai," Mr. Spuds responds, his tone weighted with sorrow, "these


    are Mi''Lord''s memories. I believe it is the Scion''s Inheritance... a reel of


    his life, if you will."


    Ember’s eyes widen, a spark of something like


    electricity flashing within them. "Spuds… did you say late? What do you


    mean, late? Where’s Elder Sister?"


    Mr. Spuds falters, his usual composure cracking


    under the weight of her question. "I... I’m sorry, Mi''Lady, but I’m afraid


    she is..."


    "Don’t you dare say it, Spudsy!" Ember


    cuts him off, her voice low but fierce, the quiet intensity of her words filled


    with a burning defiance.


    "I agree," I say firmly, my tone


    resolute, as if my words can offer solace. "If she’s like you, and you


    call her sister, then she is not gone... merely lost, drifting somewhere in the


    currents of fate."


    "What do you mean, lost?" Ember


    presses, her voice tight with urgency. "And how can you be so sure?"


    I draw a slow breath, careful in my response.


    "When we first met, you called me ''Sister.'' Given the distance between you


    and the sibling you''re searching for, I can only... assume."


    My words falter, interrupted by a voice—rich,


    familiar, echoing in my memory like an old melody. Instinctively, my gaze


    drifts toward one of the living portraits before me, its figure shifting.


    "Nathon... Are you certain of this? Using


    the gates in such a way?"


    "Grandfather?" I murmur, my breath


    catching in my throat. The word feels too distant, too unreal, slipping from my


    lips like a shadow.


    Beneath the portrait''s frame, the text reads:


    <i>[Jonathan


    of Calloway, Son of Duchess Camille of Calloway, daughter of Duchess Isabella


    of Calloway, third daughter of King Levon of Grantdale]</i>


    In the painting, Ask''Stof—a faded yet ethereal


    figure—converses with a man whose features are unsettlingly familiar. He is


    aged, worn by time, but undeniably the same figure I encountered in the ruins.


    In his arms, he cradles a child wrapped in soft, radiant cloth.


    My fingers twitch, drawn to the image. I reach


    out, grazing the painted surface, and in that instant, the moment shifts. Time


    bends. Ember, Mr. Spuds, and I become specters in the memory, caught within its


    currents.


    "Come now, Ask''Stof," Jonathan of


    Calloway’s voice breaks through the silence—smooth, calm, but with an


    undercurrent of mischief. "Weren’t the gates meant for this purpose?"


    Ask''Stof frowns, his expression heavy with


    concern. "Aye, but not like this. They were meant for your journey


    alone."


    "I know, I know..." Jonathan answers, a


    playful defiance in his tone. "But I promised my grandson a camping


    trip."


    "Please, Nathon," Ask''Stof insists,


    frustration coloring his words. "The boy is but an infant."


    Another voice enters, smooth and melodic, like a


    soft breeze on a summer evening. "I agree, Jonathan. This is taboo. There


    may be consequences we cannot predict."


    Ember nudges me, her voice a hushed gasp.


    "Whoa... that''s you."


    Mr. Spuds, always the observer, corrects her with


    his usual precision. "Actually, Mi''Lady, while the woman does resemble the


    maiden Elara, she is human, not elven."


    A warmth rises in my chest, unbidden, as tears


    spring to my eyes. They glide down my cheeks, tracing silent paths.


    "Mother?" I whisper, the name trembling like a fragile prayer on the


    air, full of yearning.