61.

Alina didn’t leave Caelan’s estate that day.

Something about the pendant—its weight, its warmth—had anchored her to the moment like roots sinking into long-forgotten soil. The silver chain now rested against her skin, and the book-shaped snow-frost pendant pressed softly over her sternum like it belonged there. Like it always had.

Caelan hadn’t asked her to stay. He hadn’t needed to.

She had wandered into the smaller study, the one lined with maps and blueprints of buildings lost to time, and sat curled up in the window nook, legs tucked beneath her. Outside, the clouds were beginning to part, sunlight cracking through like golden veins in old parchment.

Caelan watched her from the doorway for a long time, saying nothing.

Eventually, he stepped in.

"You're quiet," he said.

She looked up from the view, her voice a hush. "I'm listening."

"To what?"

Alina touched the pendant. "To her. To me. I don’t know yet. But something's humming beneath the surface now."

He nodded. "Memories don’t always return in words. Sometimes they come as instincts. Feelings. Familiarities that have no place being familiar."

She met his eyes. "Lyssira."

"That name hasn’t been spoken in over a thousand years," Caelan murmured. "Not since the last breath left her lips in the Palace of Books."

She frowned. "Tell me more about that place. Please."

He sat opposite her, folding his hands. "It wasn’t always a palace. Once, it was simply a temple. A haven for all written knowledge. Scrolls, tablets, books bound in skin and sealed with magic. Built on sacred land where people believed stories were born."

"The Kingdom of Books," Alina said softly, the name unfolding from her lips like an incantation.

Caelan nodded. "That’s what we called it. We, the guardians. There were others, once. Spirits like us. One for poetry. One for prophecy. One for memory. Fantasy… that was Lyssira."

He paused, then added, "And I was not just the Spirit of Ink. I was also the Spirit of the Paranormal. The bridge between the seen and the unseen, the imagined and the feared."

Alina’s gaze deepened. "You lived together?"

"All of us did. We were bound to the books we protected. Each of us had a master—an ancient soul that helped keep balance between the worlds. And Lyssira... she was unlike any of us. Her magic was wild, boundless. People feared that."

"Who feared her?"

His voice dropped. "The Ancient Society. A group of scholars and kings obsessed with dominion over every kind of magic. They believed if they could own the Spirit of Fantasy, they could reshape the world in their image."

Alina’s lips parted. "So they came for her."

He nodded, slow and grave. "They did. But they failed to capture her magic. So instead, they chose to destroy it."

She felt the ache in his words.

"Show me," she whispered.

He rose. "Then come with me."

They traveled in silence.

Not by car. Not by train.

Caelan led her down to the east wing of the mansion—through a hallway lined with mirrors and moonlight—until they reached a sealed oak door etched in a language that shimmered when she looked too closely.

He touched the frame, murmured a word.

The lock clicked open.

"This way," he said.

Alina followed him down a spiral staircase, each step echoing like footsteps in a well. The air grew colder the further they went, ancient and untouched. And then—light.

A room.

No, not a room. A vault of dreams.

Books floated mid-air. Ink spilled upward. The walls were stone, but alive—pulsing faintly with silver veins of light. And in the center stood a pedestal. Upon it, a basin carved from glass.

Caelan gestured to it. "This is the Scriptorium. It holds echoes of the past. Not memories, but truths."

Alina approached it, hesitant. "What do I do?"

He smiled faintly. "Drop the pendant into it."

She hesitated only a second.

Then unclasped the silver chain and let the snow-frost pendant fall.

The moment it touched the basin, the room bloomed.

A vision exploded outward—fire and marble, books flying like birds, shadows crawling through sacred halls. Alina gasped as her surroundings shifted. The library from her dreams rebuilt itself around her in flames and glory. She stood, untouched, in the middle of a tragedy frozen in time.

And she saw herself.

Lyssira.

Robed in silver and stormlight, shouting incantations as she shielded a sacred text. Her eyes were bright, defiant. Her body trembled with power. And Caelan—young, fierce, stood in front of the palace. Even after arriving at the moment he couldn't save her. The people stopped him, they didn't let him jump in the fire.

But she had stayed.

"Run!" she had cried. "You must survive. The story must live."

The vision blurred.

Alina dropped to her knees.

Tears streamed down her face. Her body shook. Her hands clawed at the stone.

Caelan knelt beside her, silent.

"She died for it," Alina whispered. "She died for the book. For you. For the world."

He nodded. "And so I kept it alive. I printed it again. Bound it again. Hid it again. I never let her story die."

She turned to him, grief and awe tangled in her expression. "But why me? Why now?"

He cupped her cheek gently. "Because your soul was ready. Because Lyssira never truly died. She waited—scattered across centuries—until the world could hold her again. And now, that vessel is you."

Alina looked at the basin, now calm.

The pendant rested there—cool, unburned. Eternal.

She reached for it.

And when her fingers closed around the chain, something new unfurled inside her. A whisper. A warmth. A clarity that wasn’t hers alone.

Lyssira’s voice.

"We are the dream and the ink. The tale and the truth. And we are not done yet."

Alina stood, straighter now. Stronger.

Caelan watched her rise like dawn breaking through centuries of dusk.

"Then let’s finish the story," she said.

And beside her, Caelan nodded.

Because this wasn’t the end.

It was the beginning.