62.

The mansion breathed with silence. A sacred stillness layered itself over the velvet of the air, as if time was bowing before something ancient, something holy.

Alina sat at the edge of her bed, the pendant now warm against her chest. Not scalding. Not magical. Just present. A reminder. A thread of the past woven delicately into the fabric of now.

Her fingers trembled slightly as they hovered above the pendant. She could still hear Lyssira’s voice—not quite separate from her own. A harmony inside her ribs. She had tried to sleep the night before, but her body pulsed with fragments, like pieces of stained glass held together by memory instead of lead.

There had been dreams.

Flickers of candlelight. Voices speaking in forgotten tongues. A library made of moonlight and marble. A kiss at the edge of war.

When morning broke, she didn’t move. Just sat there, letting the dreams settle like dust on ancient shelves.

Caelan found her like that.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, his presence not disruptive but grounding. When she turned to look at him, his expression softened.

"You remember more."

She nodded. "Pieces."

He stepped in. "Sometimes pieces are all we’re meant to carry. Until we’re strong enough to hold the whole."

She smiled faintly, eyes rimmed with sleeplessness but shining. "I want to know more. About us. About the spirits. About the people who came for me."

He nodded once, gravely. "Then come."

\---

They sat in a different room this time—round, domed, lined with tapestries that shimmered with starlight woven into silk. Caelan stood at a map etched across the marble floor, his hands behind his back.

"There were seven of us," he began, his voice a solemn melody. "Spirits born not from gods or stars, but from ideas. From need."

He turned to face her.

"Fantasy. Ink. Paranormal. Memory. Poetry. Prophecy. Logic. We were the first guardians of stories. Each of us tethered to a sacred book that held our truth."

Alina leaned forward. "And you… you were two spirits at once?"

A flicker passed through his eyes. "Yes. I was made to be the Spirit of Ink. But I was also drawn to the unseen, the realm between reality and dream. So when the spirit of Paranormal fell… I inherited his echo. It became a second heartbeat."

"And Lyssira?"

He smiled—wounded, reverent. "She was the strongest. The most beloved. Fantasy is the root of all stories, after all. Without her, none of us could create."

Alina’s breath caught. "So the Ancient Society… they were after her?"

He nodded slowly. "Not just her. But what she represented. Control over imagination is control over belief. Over perception. They believed if they captured Fantasy, they could mold the world’s dreams to their will."

She clenched her fists. "They wanted to own her."

"And when she resisted, they burned the Palace. They scattered the other spirits. Memory was shattered. Prophecy was sealed. Poetry… she disappeared. Logic betrayed us."

Alina’s eyes narrowed. "And you survived."

He sat across from her. "Only because she made me leave."

There was silence. Grief stitched between their hearts.

Then Alina whispered, "Why didn’t you find me sooner?"

Caelan exhaled. "I searched. Through centuries. You weren’t reborn right away. Fantasy needs certain conditions—a world that still believes. The modern age…" He paused. "It has not been kind to belief."

She looked down at the pendant. "Then why now?"

He leaned forward. "Because the balance is shifting again. The world is losing its stories. Magic is being forgotten. The Society has returned—stronger, more hidden. They’ve been watching you, Alina. Waiting to see if you awaken."

Her heart stilled.

"They know?"

"They suspect. And if they confirm… they’ll come for you."

She stood suddenly. "Then we can’t wait. We have to stop them."

He rose too. "That’s not how it works. We must first reawaken the other spirits. Without them, we have no strength."

"Where are they?"

Caelan’s gaze turned distant. "Lost. Sealed. Sleeping. Their books must be found. Their sanctuaries restored. Only then can we bring them back."

Alina looked down at her hands, pale but steady. "Then we begin."

He studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "I never thought I’d hear her voice in you again. Not like this."

"She’s not gone," Alina whispered. "She’s just… quieter now. But I hear her."

Caelan smiled, sadness curling the edges of it. "Then let’s wake the others. Before the Society wakes something worse."

They turned together toward the door.

And somewhere far away, in a darkened archive beneath the earth, a man in a crimson coat stared at a faded illustration.

It was a drawing of Lyssira.

And beside her, a blank space once labeled:

"The Spirit of Ink. Missing. Presumed Extinct."

The man traced the words with a black-gloved finger and smiled.

"Let the game begin."