Page 41 of Feral Gods
"The Flamekeepers," I whisper, recalling the name her bloodline used among themselves. Particularly powerful in binding magic and curse-craft, their lineage was among the most ancient and respected of the purna covens.
I follow the Flamekeeper lineage across the wall, watching it branch and narrow through generations. Some lines terminate abruptly—extinction through violence or perhaps dilution. Others continue, growing fainter as they spread outward from the central trunk.
Near the bottom of the wall, where the most recent entries would be recorded, many of the symbols have faded beyond legibility. Decades or even centuries may have passed since anyone maintained these records. Still, enough remains to trace the primary Flamekeeper line to its apparent end—a final name inscribed with particular care.
"Seraphina," I translate, the name stirring no recognition. Below it, the lineage appears to terminate, suggesting she may have been the last of her line—or perhaps simply the last recorded by whoever maintained these archives.
As I turn to examine the chamber's central altar, a flash of magenta light catches my eye—not from the walls but from the floor beneath my feet. I step back, watching as the light pulses once, twice, then fades.
Intrigued, I kneel to examine the stone more closely. Unlike the walls, the floor bears no visible writing or symbols, yet when I press my palm against it, I feel a subtle vibration—magic responding to my presence.
"Curious," I murmur, reaching into my satchel for the small collection of tools I've assembled since our awakening. From these, I select a slender crystal rod infused with neptheriumessence—useful for detecting and manipulating magical energies too subtle for direct interaction.
I tap the rod gently against the floor in a pattern mimicking the pulse I observed. The response is immediate—magenta light blooms beneath the crystal's touch, spreading outward in concentric circles that illuminate previously invisible markings across the floor's surface.
The hidden pattern reveals itself to be an elaborate ritual circle, complete with protection sigils and channeling conduits. At its center, directly beneath the stone altar, lies a symbol I recognize all too well—the binding knot used in our curse, the same pattern etched into our stone forms during our imprisonment.
"It can't be," I breathe, mind racing with implications. This chamber wasn't merely a record hall—it was a ritual space, likely the very place where Elowyn and her coven developed the curse that would eventually bind us.
I rise quickly, moving to the altar with renewed purpose. The stone slab appears unremarkable at first glance, but when illuminated by my crystal rod, its surface reveals a hidden compartment sealed with purna magic. Such locks would have been impenetrable to most, but my centuries of study—even while trapped in stone—have given me insights into magical mechanisms that few living beings possess.
After several minutes of careful manipulation, combining magical theory with practical application, I feel the lock yield beneath my efforts. The altar's surface parts seamlessly, revealing a small chamber containing a single object—a leather-bound book, its cover adorned with the now-familiar Flamekeeper symbol.
My hands tremble slightly as I lift the tome from its resting place—not from physical effort but from the weight of potential discovery. If this is what I suspect—Elowyn'spersonal grimoire—it could contain the key to understanding our curse completely, perhaps even revealing weaknesses in its construction that might protect us from future imprisonment.
I carry the book to a flat stone bench near the wall, where the light from my crystal rod will best illuminate its contents. The binding creaks softly as I open it, the pages within surprisingly well-preserved despite their age. The writing is minute and precise, in the same flowing purna script as the wall inscriptions, but with personal notations and shortcuts suggesting private use rather than formal record-keeping.
The first pages contain standard ritual preparations and magical theory, nothing particularly revolutionary to my educated eye. But as I progress deeper into the text, the content grows increasingly specific, detailing experimental approaches to binding magic that even I, with my extensive knowledge, have never encountered.
"Remarkable," I murmur again, turning the pages with careful precision. "She was innovating entirely new forms of curse-craft."
About halfway through the volume, I find what I've been seeking—detailed notes on the development of our curse, complete with diagrams and ingredient lists. Elowyn's script grows more hurried here, suggesting excitement or perhaps urgency in her work.
"Permanent binding requires anchor to living essence," I translate, brow furrowing at the implications. "Subject's own life force is insufficient for eternal effect. External essence must be incorporated—blood of caster creates the strongest bond."
This explains much about the curse's resilience. By incorporating her own essence into the binding, Elowyn created a connection that transcended normal magical limitations. Clever and devastating in equal measure.
I continue reading, each revelation more troubling than the last. According to these notes, Elowyn didn't merely curse us—she linked our fate to her bloodline, creating a magical tether that would persist through generations of her descendants.
"Only blood of my blood may unmake what I have wrought," reads one particularly ominous passage. "The binding is sealed through my essence and can be broken only by one who shares it."
The implication staggers me. If these notes are accurate, our curse could only be broken by a direct descendant of Elowyn herself—someone carrying her blood, her magical essence. Someone like...
My thoughts freeze as a memory surfaces with perfect clarity Kaia's shoulder as she wears the blue dress the other day, the small birthmark I glimpsed there. At the time, I dismissed it as an ordinary blemish, but now, with Elowyn's grimoire open before me, I recognize it for what it truly is.
The Flamekeeper mark.
I flip frantically through the book's remaining pages, searching for confirmation. Near the end, I find a family registry—a personal record of Elowyn's descendants, continuing well beyond the wall inscriptions. The final entry, made in a different hand than the rest, records the birth of a daughter to one Liliana, great-granddaughter of Seraphina.
The child's name is Kaia.
The book slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, landing with a soft thud on the stone floor. Kaia—our Kaia—is the direct descendant of the purna Matriarch who cursed us. The revelation explains everything—how she broke our curse with a desperate plea, why her magic manifested so powerfully in the temple defenses, why the purna witch tracked her through the forest.
She is the key—not merely to our awakening, but potentially to our permanent freedom or renewed imprisonment, depending on who controls her developing power.
I retrieve the book with trembling hands, my mind racing with implications. King Kres's obsessive pursuit suddenly makes terrible sense. If he knows or suspects Kaia's heritage, he would stop at nothing to possess her—not as a mere runaway slave but as a magical weapon of incalculable value.
The ethical dilemma crashes over me like a physical wave. What do I tell her? What do I tell Ravik and Thane? The knowledge is dangerous in multiple dimensions—it makes Kaia an even greater target, and it might shatter the fragile trust growing between us if she believes we value her only for her magical potential.
