Slow applause echoed from beyond the door.
Marcus drew his sword.
"Whatever he tells you about your mother—believe none of it."
The applause stopped.
Silence.
Then a voice called out, rough and unfamiliar.
"You can come in now, Miss Virelle. I have been waiting."
His voice sounds different from what I remember.
. . .
"I shall go first."
Marcus moved between Kaelen and the door.
"No."
Her hand settled on his arm.
"I speak with him alone."
"Miss, my orders—"
"Your orders are to protect me. Standing guard outside accomplishes that."
"Halden was specific. The prisoner is dangerous." Marcus shook his head.
"Then stay close." She met his eyes.
"But I need privacy for this conversation."
His grip tightened on the sword hilt.
"Five minutes. No more."
"Five minutes."
Marcus unlocked the door.
The chamber beyond was small, circular.
Ward symbols carved into every stone.
In the centre sat a figure chained to the wall—a man she thought she knew.
The prisoner's eyes were grey instead of ice-blue.
His voice is rough instead of smooth.
His face bore sharper cheekbones, a harder jaw.
Not him. Not the one from my window.
. . .
"You are not what I expected."
The prisoner looked up.
"We need to talk." Kaelen moved closer.
"About what?"
The wrong face. Sharp cheekbones where smooth ones should be.
"About what you told me. The binding ritual. The sacrifice."
"We have never spoken before."
The pendant's warning from last night made sense now.
Those memories of his visits felt thin.
Like trying to remember a dream that had never been real.
"Stop pretending. You came to my window. Told me about the binding—"
"What window? What binding?"
The prisoner tested his restraints.
Metal scraped against stone.
"You are Kaelen Virelle, daughter of Maera Virelle, the firekeeper. But we have never met."
The pendant at her throat pulsed.
Cold.
Her mother's words echoed: Cold means truth.
"The symbols on these walls move." Her fingers found the carved stone.
"You can see that?"
She traced one of the lines.
"They shift when I am not looking directly."
"Flame magic inheritance. Strong bloodline."
The prisoner leaned forward against his chains.
"But that means someone has been feeding you lies. Using my face to deceive you."
Her hand dropped from the wall.
Ice spread from his shackles across the stone floor.
"Shapeshifter. I expected one eventually."
He paused.
"Every northern survivor knows about them."
A shapeshifter. Here. In the Archive itself.
"My mother wrote about shapeshifters in her journal."
Kaelen pulled out the pages.
"That they hunt ice mages. Kill them wearing loved ones' faces."
The prisoner studied her.
"What did this shapeshifter tell you about the binding?"
Kaelen hesitated.
"That the binding was the only way to stabilise the crystal that powers the sun-stone and restore the wardlight to save the city."
She looked down at the pages.
"That my fire would be gone forever, but that I would survive."
The creature made it sound like a noble sacrifice.
"A lie to make you desperate."
The prisoner leaned forward.
"Listen carefully. The binding ritual is not for stabilisation. It is for usurpation."
. . .
Kaelen retreated a step.
"Usurpation?"
Everything it told me—every sacrifice I prepared to make.
"Who benefits from this ritual?"
"The binding transfers control of the crystal's power—control of the wardlight itself—to whoever performs the ritual."
His chains clinked as he shifted.
"In this case, to the shapeshifter's master."
"But the city—"
"Will still freeze. The ritual does not restore anything."
He held her gaze.
"Every move you have made was designed to set up the transfer."
"The creature needed you cooperative, willing, focused on saving others."
No.
"But it said I would live! Only lose my magic!"
"The shapeshifter is called Malachar," the prisoner said. "Malachar serves Lord Verrian Dain of the northern territories."
The pages crumpled in Kaelen's grip.
"What does the real binding require?"
"The ice mage—me—at peak power."
The weight of his words settled over the chamber.
"And what happens to you?"
"The ritual consumes the ice mage completely—not just magic, but life."
Grey eyes held hers.
"The binding will not cost you your fire. It will cost me my life."
My life for his.
"They need you alive and focused to complete the ritual."
Ice spread further from his shackles.
"They need me dead to make it work."
Her back pressed against the wall.
Dead. Not drained. Dead.
"This shapeshifter has been planning for months."
Months.
Whilst Kaelen had trusted.
Had believed.
Had prepared to sacrifice everything.
She had been nothing but a pawn in someone else's game.
She moved closer to the deeper carvings in the stone wall.
"There is another way?"
The prisoner nodded toward the ancient symbols that shifted across the surface.
"See those? They show the Sundered Peaks. Where the crystal was forged."
The Sundered Peaks.
. . .
Her finger traced the carved lines.
Mountains and peaks glowed.
The world blurred—stone halls filled her vision, ancient and impossibly vast.
She was there.
Walking between forges where smiths shaped impossible metal.
Flame burned cold.
Ice burned hot.
Her pendant burned and froze simultaneously.
The vision released her.
She gripped the carved stone, steadying herself.
"What did you see?"
His voice pulled her back.
"Stone halls built into the mountains themselves."
The wall's chill anchored her to the present.
"Forges where flame burns cold and ice burns hot. Smiths working with magic I cannot understand—ice and fire together, creating something new."
Ice spread from his shackles.
"Your mother found them too."
Mother knew.
"She was not researching how to fix the wardlight, child. She was looking to replace the system entirely."
He paused.
"That is why they killed her."
Kaelen pulled her robes tighter.
"She discovered who really built the crystal that powers the sun-stone. And why."
The prisoner strained against his chains.
"The crystal was not created to protect Erathil from the cold. It was created to control everyone else."
"Keep the outer kingdoms frozen whilst Erathil stays warm."
Everything I believed was a lie.
. . .
Footsteps overhead—many of them, rapid on stone.
"They are coming. Do not mention the mountains. Do not mention what we have discussed."
"What should I say?"
"Nothing. Let me handle this."
The scripts on the walls dimmed.
The carved symbols showing the peaks faded to ordinary stone.
Magic hiding itself.
"Remember—the shapeshifter wants you to perform that binding. Everything it told you was designed to lead you here."
"But the Council—"
"May not know they are being manipulated too."
Metal clinked outside.
"Trust no one. Especially not anyone who looks like me."
The door burst open.
. . .
Councillor Frost entered with Blackmere and four armed guards. Marcus followed, sword still drawn.
"Senior Scribe Virelle." Frost stopped before the prisoner's chains.
"I see you have met our guest."
"My lord."
Kaelen bowed.
Councillor Frost circled closer.
"He seems uncertain of your identity."
Blackmere approached the prisoner.
"Survivor of the wastelands. Keeper of northern secrets. Only ice mage we have captured in decades."
"I am a prisoner. Nothing more."
His shackles scraped as he tested them.
He is preparing something.
"Humble words."
Blackmere circled him slowly.
"The northern refugees speak of you with great respect. They call you Riven Drae. Last of the ice-shapers."
"What happens to us during this binding?"
Riven interrupted.
"You provide ice. She provides flame."
Blackmere gestured toward the window, where the sun-stone's wardlight pulsed weakly.
"The crystal that powers the sun-stone absorbs both."
"And then?" Kaelen asked.
"Any remaining magic will be redistributed to the Council."
Blackmere's smile never reached his eyes.
"We have the training for such power."
They are stealing our magic.
"You mean to keep it."
"We are preventing catastrophe."
Blackmere pointed toward the window.
"The crystal weakens by the hour, and the sun-stone's wardlight grows unstable."
Through the frosted glass, irregular pulses of light flickered.
Weak.
Dying.
"Without immediate intervention, the crystal fails within days."
Councillor Frost advanced with iron shackles in his hands.
"The sun-stone dies. The wardlight collapses. Erathil freezes. Everyone dies. Millions freeze to death."
"Hardly a choice at all."
No choice. Never a choice.
. . .
"The ritual preparations are complete. We begin at dawn."
Councillor Frost held the iron shackles.
Carved with binding runes.
Kaelen took a step back.
The ritual the shapeshifter described.
"The binding your research identified. Ice and flame magic combined to restore the crystal's power and stabilise the wardlight."
Blackmere's mouth curved.
"With proper supervision, of course."
"First, we address security concerns."
Councillor Frost gestured to the walls where symbols had glowed moments before.
"Magical disturbances throughout the Archive. Walls responding to unauthorised touch. Wards activating without permission."
She paused.
"All pointing to uncontrolled flame magic."
Councillor Frost stared at Kaelen.
"Your uncontrolled flame magic. Three scribes reported books glowing when you passed. Two guards saw flames dance in your footsteps."
Is that true? Have I been losing control?
The shackles clicked around Kaelen's wrists.
Cold metal.
Carved with binding runes.
Her magic disappeared instantly.
The warmth she had carried since childhood—gone.
Like losing part of myself.
Her hand found the wall.
"The binding runes are working."
Councillor Frost stepped back.
"Better?"
"I cannot feel anything. The fire inside is just... gone."
"Precisely the point. Now you are properly contained."
Riven tested his restraints.
A thin layer of ice appeared, then vanished.
"These will not hold ice magic for long. Minutes. Maybe less if I push."
Snow tapped harder against the windows.
"Perfect. The ritual only takes minutes."
Blackmere gestured to the guards.
Minutes until death.
Councillor Frost waved the guards forward.
"Bring them to the Flame Sanctum."
Kaelen retreated a step.
Where mother died.
"You know why we chose that location."
Councillor Frost's gaze was steady.
"Where your mother chose resistance over cooperation. How fitting you will complete her work there."
"She was trying to help people."
"By destabilising our defences? By threatening Erathil's survival?"
Blackmere advanced.
"She was seeking alternatives to this system. There are no alternatives. Only duty."
The guards pushed them toward the stairs.
Marcus stepped closer as they passed. His voice barely a whisper:
"I shall send word to Halden."
Then he fell back into formation, sword still drawn.
The stairs spiralled upward.
Toward the Flame Sanctum. Toward the ritual.
. . .
As they climbed, Riven whispered.
"The shapeshifter could be anyone."
"Anyone except us."
Kaelen replied quietly.
"We are the only ones the creature needs alive."
"For now."
Behind them, carved symbols remained on the cell walls.
Every line memorised.
Every curve points toward distant mountains.
The sun-stone blazed brighter as they climbed, its wardlight pulsing through the Archive's windows.
The pulses came uneven instead of steady.
"Look outside."
Kaelen stopped.
"The ice patterns on every window. That is not natural weather."
"Explain yourself fully."
Blackmere demanded.
She clutched her mother's pages.
"The patterns look like writing. Old script. I do not know what they say yet. But they are moving."
Through the iced glass, other towers rose in the distance.
Every sun-stone's wardlight flickering in the same dying pulse.
"The outer districts have gone completely dark."
Riven observed.
"Temporary power fluctuations. We are managing the crisis."
They climbed higher, toward the tower's peak.
"My shackles are getting warm. Like heated iron. The closer we get to the Sanctum..."
"The binding runes are responding to residual magic. Perfectly normal."
Councillor Frost continued climbing.
Her shackles hummed softly.
Riven studied her face.
"The sound is familiar. I have heard it before."
Councillor Frost's hands tightened in his robes.
Too much. Said too much.
The torches guttered.
"Your shackles hum," Blackmere observed. "Resonating with something."
"The binding runes respond to residual magic," Kaelen said carefully.
Councillor Frost turned on the stairs.
"Or to the Sundered Peaks."
The Sundered Peaks. Frost knows about them.
Councillor Frost's mouth curved.
"We know about everything, child. Including what your mother found there."
They reached the highest tower.
Dawn broke outside, pale light flickering.
"The same power that has been calling to you."
The Flame Sanctum doors stood ahead.
Black wood carved with symbols that moved across the surface.
"This is where everything changes."
"For better or worse."
Riven muttered.
"That depends entirely on your cooperation."
Inside those doors, my mother made her last stand.
The Council wants our magic. The shapeshifter wants something else entirely.
. . .
"Tell me one matter."
Kaelen stopped at the entrance.
Councillor Frost paused.
"The one who has been visiting me. The one wearing his face."
She nodded toward Riven.
"Where did Malachar learn so much about my family?"
Councillor Frost and Blackmere exchanged glances.
"Many experiences feel familiar in times of stress."
They do not know who the shapeshifter is, either.
"Time to go."
Councillor Frost pushed open the doors.
Beyond lay the Flame Sanctum.
Where her mother made her final stand.
Where the binding ritual would steal their magic forever and feed it to the crystal that powers the sun-stone.
Unless Malachar's plan succeeded first.
But whose plan is worse?
The doors swung wide.
Through them, the Flame Sanctum's ritual circle blazed with prepared magic.
. . .
End of Chapter 5
. . .
Next Chapter Preview: The Binding Begins
In the Flame Sanctum, where her mother died, Kaelen faces the ritual that will drain her magic forever. But as the Council begins the binding, an unexpected visitor arrives—someone wearing a face she trusts. With the shapeshifter's true identity finally revealed, Kaelen must choose between the Council's lies and a creature's promises. Meanwhile, the real Riven discovers the binding is not meant to save anyone at all. The Council's patience has run out. And the real binding ritual is about to begin.