"You’re late," Kieran’s voice echoed softly through the stone chamber, half amusement, half reproach.

Aelira slid through the narrow door, brushing dust from her ragged cloak. "You’re lucky I came at all," she shot back, closing the hidden entrance behind her. "The whole city’s on edge. I had to take three different alleys just to stay out of the enforcers’ view." Her fingers lingered over the faded emblem stitched along her hem—a mark of the ancient Archives, dangerous to wear but impossible to part with.  Only a select few knew of the emblem and its true meaning. 

"Careful, Aelira. One day you’ll slip, and they’ll drag us both to the dungeons," Kieran said, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I just can’t keep this up much longer.” He was older, with ink-stained hands and a sharpness in his gaze that no amount of weariness could dull. His worn scholar’s cloak hung loosely on his frame, showing the signs of its age, the same shade of deep navy as hers, a sign of the knowledge they protected. The dim light caught the faint emblem pinned at his chest—a silver crest long forbidden under the tyrant’s rule.

Aelira crossed the chamber, her steps echoing against rows of shelves crammed with brittle scrolls, ancient tablets, and leather-bound tomes. The air was thick with dust and secrets. The light coming through the cracks in the floor illuminated the archive with rays of hanging dust.  "I’m not the one slipping," she said, her voice quieter now. "You left this out." She held up a small, jagged artifact—black stone, veined with gold. It pulsed faintly beneath her fingers.

Kieran’s smile faded. "You found it?"

"Tucked underneath the blankets where we met yesterday.  And you were right, it matches the descriptions of the Voice fragments. This could be it." She lowered her voice to a whisper.   “We need to get to the old kings’ crypt."

He took the artifact carefully, turning it over in his hands. "If it is, we’re running out of time." His voice tightened. "The enforcers have been doubling their patrols. Someone knows we’re getting close."

Aelira shook her head, sending stray curls tumbling from her hood. "They don’t know where the Archives are," she said, more to herself than to him. "They can’t." But even as the words left her mouth, unease gnawed at her stomach.

Kieran studies the stones on his table. 

Kieran exhaled sharply. "It’s not just the Voice they want," he said. "It’s the heir. And if the tyrant finds her first—" 

“We’ve never been able to trace the bloodline.  But the magic and power this person holds would destroy the regime. This holds the key.”  Aelira holds the artifact up to the light coming through the floor.

A distant thud cut through the chamber. Aelira stiffened. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. "Enforcers," Kieran hissed, tossing the artifact at Aelira. "Go. Now."

Aelira didn’t argue. She caught the artifact and darted to the far wall, fingers scrabbling for the concealed latch. Just as the trapdoor creaked open, the chamber door burst inward, and three enforcers spilled inside.

Kieran raised his hands in mock surrender, blocking their view of the hidden passage. "Is there a problem?" he asked coolly, masking the fear beneath his words.

One of the enforcers, taller and crueler than the rest, stepped forward. "By order of the Black Keep, you’re under arrest for possession of forbidden texts."

Aelira froze beneath the trapdoor, heart pounding in her throat. She could only watch as they seized Kieran and dragged him from the Archives. The last thing she saw before slipping into the tunnels was the flicker of flame—an enforcer’s torch, set against the shelves. They were burning everything.

The Keeper crossed into the kingdom at first light, leaving behind the jagged mountains that marked its border. His journey had taken weeks, through wild lands and forgotten roads, each step drawing him closer to the heart of a kingdom he had only heard of in whispers. The council had sent him to find the heir—a girl rumored to possess the ancient Voice of Kings. If she existed, she was in danger. And if he did not find her soon, the tyrant would.

The wind carried secrets through the broken city, curling through alleys where no one dared linger. It slipped past the rusted gates of the Gallows Square and the cold stone of the Black Keep, where the air was heavy with unspoken fear. The people had learned long ago—words were dangerous here.

The city greeted him with a cold, uneasy silence. Its walls, once gleaming with the pride of old kings, were cracked and worn. Even the wind felt heavy here, thick with the weight of something broken. He passed through the gate unnoticed, another traveler among the weary and the desperate, but he felt the eyes of the tyrant's enforcers everywhere. In a place like this, nothing stayed hidden for long.

A hunched woman near the gate thrust a basket of shriveled apples toward him. "Buy, stranger?" Her voice was rough, cracked with thirst. He shook his head, but her gaze lingered, wary and searching. "Not many come here by choice," she added quietly.

"I'm just passing through," he said, though they both knew no one passed through this city without reason.

A boy darted by, barefoot and thin as a shadow, clutching a stolen crust of bread. An enforcer snatched him by the collar, raising a gauntleted hand. The Keeper's fingers twitched toward his blade—but no. Not yet. He couldn't afford attention. The boy twisted free and vanished into the crowd, leaving only dust in his wake.

He moved along the edge of the square, his cloak heavy with dust from distant roads. Every step deepened his unease. He had seen fallen kingdoms before, but this place felt different—as if the land itself strained beneath the weight of a stolen throne. The very earth seemed brittle beneath his boots, the cobblestones cracked like old bones. Buildings leaned at odd angles, their foundations sinking as if the ground could no longer bear their weight. Once-proud banners hung in tatters, their colors faded to ghostly grays. Even the air felt thin, as though something vital had been drained away, leaving the city gasping in quiet agony.

A pair of merchants huddled nearby, their voices low. "They say the tyrant's hunting something," one whispered. "Or someone." The other spat into the dirt. "Doesn't matter. Nothing changes."

His sharp eyes swept the gathering crowd. Merchants with hollow faces. Mothers pulling their children close. All of them wore the same expression—resignation. No hope remained here.

At the center of the square, the prisoner knelt on a raised platform of blackened wood, wrists bound with iron. His face was gaunt, hollowed by weeks in the dungeons, but his eyes burned with defiance. Blood crusted his temple, and his torn cloak—once a scholar’s robe—fluttered weakly in the wind. This was no common thief.

The Keeper edged closer as an enforcer paced before the platform, his voice cold and sharp. "Kieran of the Archives," he declared, "You are accused of treason—of spreading lies about the Voice of Kings. You will speak the names of those who aid you."

"Lies?" Kieran’s voice was raw but steady. "The Voice was never yours to silence." The words rang out, stirring a ripple through the crowd. Some turned their faces away. Others froze in place, afraid even to breathe.

A slap cracked across his face, but he did not bow his head. Above them, high in the Black Keep’s tower, a shadow shifted behind a curtain—watching. The tyrant’s presence was felt even without seeing him, like a weight pressing down on every soul below. Behind the thick stone walls, his cold eyes narrowed. He had scoured the kingdom for any trace of the ancient power, and now—perhaps—he was close.

The Keeper’s hands curled into fists.

Kieran was no fool. He had been a historian once—one of the last who still knew the old ways. If the tyrant believed he had knowledge of the true heir, his life would soon be forfeit.

"You waste your breath," Kieran said quietly. "You can cut out every tongue, burn every book—but the Voice will rise again."

The enforcer raised his blade. "Speak their names, and your death will be swift."

The Keeper stilled, his fingers brushing the hilt of the blade at his side. It’s not him.  Somewhere in this city, the Voice still lived. And he would find it.

A girl pushed through the crowd, her heart pounding in her chest. She kept her head down, shoulders hunched beneath a threadbare cloak, but every step felt too loud, too visible. Her hands trembled as she clutched the folds of fabric tighter, hoping to hide the faded emblem stitched along the hem—a mark of the Archives. It was dangerous to wear it now, but she could never quite bring herself to cut it away. It was all she had left of the life stolen from her.

She had to reach Kieran. If he spoke her name, everything was over.

Her breath hitched as she slipped between two traders, their voices murmuring curses against the Black Keep. She felt their eyes on her—on the dirt smudged across her face, the hollowness in her cheeks. Just another beggar girl. Invisible. That was what she needed to be.

A gust of wind tugged at his cloak as the enforcer's sword gleamed in the pale light. The Keeper held his breath, hoping, waiting. Say something, he willed silently. Speak, and I will find you.

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to tremble on the edge of sound.

Kieran lifted his head—and his blood ran cold. "Aelira," he breathed, the name slipping from his lips before he could stop it.

Aelira froze. For one agonizing second, it felt like the whole world had heard him.

The enforcer turned sharply toward Kieran, sword poised to strike.

"Virelas!" The word tore from Aelira’s throat, raw and instinctive. But it wasn’t just a word—it was something more. Ancient, powerful. It rolled through the square like a thunderclap.

The iron shackles binding Kieran’s wrists snapped open—and the platform beneath him groaned, splitting with a jagged crack. A pulse of unseen force rippled outward, shattering stone and sending the enforcer flying backward into the dirt.

The Keeper moved like a shadow come to life, swift and sure. His blade flashed in the pale light, cutting down another enforcer who lunged toward Aelira.

Kieran staggered to his feet, wide-eyed, his freed hands trembling. "The Voice," he whispered. "It’s her."

Aelira stood frozen in the crowd, the echo of that word still thrumming in her bones.

The Keeper seized Aelira’s arm, pulling her toward the alley. The square behind them boiled with chaos—shouts, the clatter of boots, and the groans of the injured. Dust swirled as the platform collapsed in splinters.

Aelira’s breath came in ragged gasps. "I—I didn’t mean to—"

"You’ve just declared war," the Keeper said, his voice low and urgent. "And every soul in this kingdom will know it."

Still gripping her arm, he led her deeper into the city’s twisting alleys, where the shadows ran thicker and the cries of the square faded behind them. But in her heart, the word still echoed. And nothing would ever be the same again.

Aelira stumbled, desperately trying to keep up with the Keeper, her legs aching as they cut through the maze streets and alleyways. The sound of distant shouts of enforcers and citizens echoed behind them. "So," she panted, "this whole Voice thing—am I supposed to get a crown now, or does it just come with more people trying to kill me?"

The Keeper gave a dry laugh. "If you live long enough, maybe both."

"I should’ve stayed home," she muttered, tripping on her own feet. "Oh wait—I don’t have one because they just burned it all down….or I did."

"You’re welcome for the rescue," he shot back.

“This is a rescue?”, she said as she skidded around a corner.

They darted across a narrow street, slipping between broken carts and abandoned stalls. Aelira's heart felt like it was going to explode. She barely had time to process the truth hanging between them—She was the heir. The Voice of Kings. And now, the rulers wanted her dead. 

"You’re taking this well," the Keeper said, glancing sideways.

"Oh, I’m fine," she snapped. "Just realizing my life expectancy dropped to about five minutes."

Aelira slammed into a body and bounced back.  Aelira’s heart lurched—until she recognized the familiar frame. "Kieran!"

He looked bruised, battered—but alive. "Took you long enough," he said, brushing soot from his tattered cloak. "I thought I’d have to save myself."

The Keeper arched a brow. "We were a bit occupied right now. And, by the way, your friend just shattered half the Gallows Square."

Kieran’s gaze slid to Aelira. "Why am I not surprised?  Of course, you’re the heir.”

Aelira threw up her hands. "Oh, sure. Everyone knew except me."

"You suspected," Kieran said, falling into step beside them. "That’s why you kept digging. Why you couldn’t walk away."

Aelira blew a strand of hair from her face. "If I’m the Voice, does that mean I get to tell you both to shut up?"

The Keeper snorted, leading them toward the city’s crumbling outer wall. "I’d like to see you try."

As they slipped through a broken gate, the smoke-filled city faded behind them, replaced by a wild, tangled expanse. The ground was uneven, the remains of old paths swallowed by creeping vines. Broken statues loomed in the moonlight—faceless kings with swords crumbled at their sides.

"This is cheery," Aelira muttered, stepping over a twisted root. "Any other bright ideas, or are we just hoping the crypt invites us in for tea?"

"The old kings’ crypt is more than a tomb," Kieran said, scanning the overgrown path. "It’s where the bloodline was recorded. If the answers exist, they’re there."

Aelira swallowed the panic rising in her chest. Every step felt heavier, as if the land itself resisted their approach. In the distance, a jagged archway rose from the earth—a gateway to whatever truth lay buried below.

"You’re sure about this?" she asked quietly.

"No," Kieran admitted. "But it’s the only chance we have."

The Keeper’s voice was softer than before. "If you really are the heir, Aelira, everything changes."

Aelira forced a smile. "Great!  I’ve always wanted a dying kingdom and a death sentence."

Together, they pressed on, the darkness swallowing them as they descended toward the crypt—and the secrets waiting within.

Five generations earlier…

The queen’s labored breaths filled the stone chamber, echoing against the high, arched ceiling. The air was heavy with the sharp scent of blood and fear. She clutched her swollen belly, her face pale and drawn beneath her crown. "You must protect the child," she gasped, her voice trembling with urgency. "If the line dies… the Voice dies with it."

"My queen," her handmaiden whispered, kneeling beside her. "The king’s forces are scattered—there is no one left to trust."

Tears burned the queen’s eyes as another wave of pain seized her. "It will take generations," she said through gritted teeth, "but the Voice will return. The tyrant cannot silence it forever.  It will find a way.”

A frail cry pierced the air. The child. A girl. The queen’s vision blurred as she gazed upon her daughter. "Take her," she ordered, her voice fierce despite her weakness. "Hide her among the people. Let her live. She is the first in a new hope for our people. 

The handmaiden wrapped the newborn in a rough woolen cloak. Outside, a peasant family waited, faces etched with fear and resolve. Without another word, she placed the child in their arms and sent them into the night.

The queen collapsed back against the pillows, her strength fading. "Five generations," she murmured. "And the Voice will rise again."

They travel downward, into the crypts.  The light of the torches only enhance the fear and mystery the crypts hold. 

The stone walls of the crypt swallowed them in silence. The air grew colder as they descended, the smell of earth and time thick around them. Dust hung heavy in the air, stirred by their footsteps. Aelira’s fingers tightened around the seven-sided artifact, its jeweled surface cold against her skin.

They emerged into a vast chamber where seven ornate tombs stood in a circle. Each had a shallow recess at its center, shaped precisely to fit the artifact.

Kieran stepped toward the seventh crypt, brushing dust from the ancient carvings. "This one," he said softly. "The last true king. A ruler of the people."

Aelira traced the faded inscriptions with her fingertips. Halfway through the tale of the kingdom’s fall, the writing ended—abruptly, as though the scribe had been interrupted.

Without hesitation, the Keeper fit the artifact into the recess. The stone groaned as if waking from a long sleep.

Aelira gasped. A whisper touched her mind, five words repeating softly: "Virelas, Oron, Solkara, Emryn, Vastar."

“Do you hear that?” Aelira whispered in panic.  “Hear what?”, Kieran said. 

“Listen, shhh.”, she commanded.  The voices continued. "Virelas, Oron, Solkara, Emryn, Vastar." “You don’t hear that?”, she asked. 

“No, it’s only for you.”, the Keeper added as if knowing something she didn’t.  “Remember it.  It matters.”, he said, looking at her as if to intimate it was an instruction, not a suggestion.  “These may be the most important words of your life.”

The words twisted in her mind as they walked through the tomb.  “What do they mean?”, Aelira said in a whisper.  She didn’t know what to make of them.  Kieran still looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

Aelira grabbed his arm to keep him moving.  Kieran stumbled through the rocks, holding the torch as they approached the high altar.   “I’ve never seen this part of the tomb.”, Aelira said, looking for some comfort from the Keeper, hoping he knew something. 

Suddenly, the ground shifted beneath her feet. Before she could react, the floor gave way—plunging her into darkness.

Aelira landed hard, the breath knocked from her lungs. For a moment, all was black—then the shadows thinned, giving way to a dimly lit room. She pushed herself upright, wincing, and realized where she was.

It was her childhood home.

The walls were cracked, the air thick with the scent of damp wood and ash. In the far corner, a a girl is huddled by a dying fire, arms wrapped around her knees. Her face was pale, eyes wide with hunger. Voices drifted from outside—a cruel, familiar chorus.

"A girl with no family worth speaking of," someone sneered. "No one will remember her."

Aelira’s fists clenched. She had heard those words before—too many times. She wanted to turn away, to shut her ears against the memories, but the illusion pulled her deeper. Her younger self flinched at every harsh sound, every reminder that she didn’t belong. 

Aelira swallowed hard. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Yet the ache in her chest was the same one she had carried for years—the fear that no matter what she did, she would always be alone.

The walls seemed to press closer, the fire sputtering to embers. She felt the weight of those childhood doubts creep in. Is this who I am? she wondered. A forgotten girl with no place, no power?

Aelira turned toward a door—a door that should not be there. She recognized it immediately. It was the threshold of the orphanage cellar where she'd spent nights alone when she disobeyed. The memory surfaced unbidden, raw, and sharp.

The door creaked open, revealing a cold, windowless room. She saw herself as a child, curled on the floor. Her hands trembled as she clutched a broken wooden toy—the only possession she had ever called her own. No one had come for her that night. No one ever did.

The voices outside faded, replaced by silence more profound than anything she had known. She remembered the crushing sense that no one in the world cared whether she lived or died. The child in the vision wiped her tears on the back of her hand, her face pale in the candlelight.

Aelira wanted to scream—to tell the girl she mattered. But the words stuck in her throat. This place, this feeling—it had never truly left her.

She stepped toward the child, but the walls trembled, and the vision shifted again. Now, she was standing in a shadowed square, watching herself—older but no less alone—sifting through scraps for food. People walked past her without a glance. No one reached out. She was invisible.

Her breath hitched. The illusion wasn’t just showing her the past—it was dragging her into it. Reminding her of everything she feared. That she would always be unwanted. Always be alone.

The air grew colder, the shadows deepening as the illusion shifted again.

Aelira found herself in a grand hall, its towering stone pillars etched with the symbols of the ancient kings. The golden light of torches flickered, casting long shadows. At the far end of the hall stood the Keeper and Kieran—but their faces were unreadable, their eyes cold.

She stepped toward them, relief rising in her chest. "You found me—"

"We never should have," Kieran interrupted, his voice sharp. "You aren't ready, Aelira. You never were."

Her blood ran cold. "What? No, I—"

"You're weak," the Keeper added, his tone devoid of warmth. "A girl playing at power. The kingdom needs a true heir, not… this."

The words struck like a physical blow. She shook her head, heart pounding. "I didn’t ask for this—I never wanted it! But I’m trying!"

Kieran stepped closer, his expression dark. "Trying isn’t enough. Do you know how much you've risked? The kingdom can't afford your mistakes."

The illusion pulled tighter, pressing against her thoughts. Doubt curled around her mind like a serpent. What if they were right? What if she wasn't enough?

"No," she whispered. "You wouldn't say that. Not Kieran. Not him."

The Keeper's face twisted into a sneer. "You’re nothing but a burden."

Aelira staggered back, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. But somewhere deep inside, a spark of defiance flared. This isn’t real, she told herself. It can’t be.

Yet the words echoed through the hall, louder and more cruel with every step they took toward her. "You’ll fail. You’ll destroy everything."

Her hands curled into fists as her breath grew shallow. For the first time, she wasn’t sure if they were wrong.

The grand hall trembled, the stone beneath her feet cracking. The torchlight dimmed, swallowed by a creeping red haze.

Aelira turned, heart pounding, as the scene shifted again.

She was in the city—but it was no longer the city she knew. The streets were broken and blackened, the air thick with smoke. Bodies lay scattered across the cobblestones, some clad in the simple clothes of peasants, others in the armor of fallen rebels. The banners of the tyrant hung from every crumbled wall, stained crimson.

In the center of the square stood a scaffold. Her breath hitched as she realized who knelt there—herself. Bound in heavy chains, bruised and bloodied. Enforcers surrounded the platform, their faces hidden beneath steel masks.

Above her, the tyrant stood tall, his voice echoing through the ruined city. "This is your heir?" he mocked. "A broken girl who could not bear the weight of her own power. Look at her—this is what hope has brought you. Nothing but ruin.  And all of you will pay for her failure.”

Aelira’s stomach twisted. The city was burning because of her failure. She had tried—and failed—to be the Voice.

The crowd was silent. No one moved to help. No one spoke for her. And as the tyrant raised his sword, the Aelira on the scaffold lifted her head—her eyes empty, her hope gone.

"No," Aelira whispered, shaking her head. "This isn’t real. This won’t happen."

But the illusion felt too vivid, too heavy. She could almost feel the heat from the fires, the weight of the kingdom’s hopes slipping through her fingers. Was this her future—a legacy of failure and death?

Aelira’s heart pounded as she looked at the broken version of herself. The tyrant’s sword gleamed as he prepared to strike—but her focus shifted to the crowd. Among the silent faces, she saw the fear-- children, huddled together, too weak to run. An elderly woman lay crushed beneath fallen rubble. A young boy trembled as an enforcer raised his blade.

Aelira’s fear twisted into something else—fury.

“No,” she said, her voice stronger this time. “You don’t get to decide who I am.”

Without thinking, she stepped forward, placing herself between the tyrant and the broken version of herself on the scaffold. Her arms spread wide, shielding the wounded and helpless. Her breath shook, but she stood firm.

“You can haunt me with my failures,” she said, her voice rising, “but I won’t let you hurt them.”

The tyrant’s blade came down in a blur of steel, but Aelira met it mid-swing, the clash ringing through the ruined hall. Her arms trembled under the force, but she held firm, driving him back with a fierce strike. He was stronger—years of battle etched into his every move—but she was faster. When his sword arced toward her side, she twisted, the tip grazing her cloak as she slipped behind him. With a surge of defiance, she drove her blade low, cutting through his defenses. His knees buckled. Aelira pressed the tip of her sword to his throat, her breath ragged but steady. "You ruled through fear," she said, her voice sharp as the steel in her hand. "But fear dies here." The tyrant's sword clattered to the ground as the light of the Voice surged through her veins—an undeniable, unstoppable truth. This time, she would not bow. This time, she had won.

Aelira turned toward the frightened faces in the crowd. “You are not forgotten,” she said, and the words felt like fire in her chest. “I won’t leave you behind. Not again.”

The ground trembled beneath her feet. The vision began to crack apart, light spilling through the fractures. She wasn’t powerless—not anymore. Whatever else the Voice of Kings meant, it was a power meant to protect.