Chapter I: Velmora
“Don’t make your gift someone else’s curse.” That was what a wise woman once told her.
Orielle still didn’t know if it had been a warning… or a confession. Either way, it hadn’t mattered. Her gift had become a curse long before she’d had the strength to carry it.
This was where she would be resting in a year and a half — among the stones, between the names, beneath the silence. Every ten years, the strongest eighteen-year-old Oracle was chosen to become the next Ambassador. The living vessel for the ancestral council.
Chosen was a generous word. One by one, everyone Orielle knew lined up to tell her how honorable her sacrifice would be. They spoke like they were celebrating a birthday — not a burial. But she stared at the cemetery every morning. She knew which plot would be hers. And she knew exactly how many moments she would never get to live. The laughter she would never share. The love she would never feel. The sky she would never see after her body became a mouth for the dead.
They said she was born to speak for the ones before her. She wondered if any of them had ever screamed to be left alone. Sometimes she wondered what would’ve happened if she had run that day. If she had screamed louder. If her father had fought harder. If her mother had chosen her instead of the dead. But memory didn’t ask questions. It didn’t wait for answers. It just... returned. And always, it returned to that day—
The cemetery faded. The cold gave way to warmth. Firelight. Simmering herbs. Soft cotton sheets. A wooden home on the edge of the world — alive with the sounds of family.
Her mother stood by the window, brushing out her long black hair. She hummed a hymn older than language — the kind they only taught to women of the line.
“You left the basil in too long,” she said without turning. “Again.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
Her father laughed softly from the doorway, drying his hands. For a moment, they were just that — a family. No rituals. No bloodline. No ghosts. Then came the knock. The kind that ended things.
“Go,” her father whispered, suddenly tense. “Back room, Orielle. Now.”
“What—?”
“Now!”
He grabbed her by the shoulders, spun her around, half-shoved her down the narrow hallway. But Orielle barely made it three steps before the door exploded inward with a low thunderclap of force. The air in the room turned cold. And then she stepped through.
The Ambassador. Cloaked in bone-gray robes. Veins glowing faint red beneath skin like porcelain. Eyes like still water.
“This child belongs to the bloodline.”
Orielle’s father charged with all the weight of grief in his chest. The Ambassador raised a single hand. He hit the far wall like a thrown doll. Orielle screamed. Her mother didn’t move. The Ambassador turned to her — not with threat, but with expectation. And her mother bowed.
“I have kept her untouched. Her sight is clear. Her dreams true.”
“She is ready,” the Ambassador replied.
Orielle looked to her mother, her breath catching in desperation.
“Please… Mama, please! Don’t let them—don’t let them take me!”
Her mother didn’t kneel. She didn’t weep.
She took Orielle’s wrist — gently, almost lovingly — and turned her toward the Ambassador. Her voice was ice cold:
“Do not shame your legacy, child.”
Then she handed her over. No tear. No word of goodbye. The Ambassador placed her hand on Orielle’s spine. And in that moment, Orielle felt the first pull of the spirits — cold, hungry, endless.
“Orielle?”
A voice, real this time — not a memory. Orielle blinked, the memory dissolving slowly from her thoughts. The warmth of the past receded, replaced by the sterile cold of the present.
“Orielle,” the voice repeated, firmer now. “We’re going to be late. Lessons.”
It was Elira. Always punctual. Always too loud for this place. But today, Orielle didn’t mind the interruption. She stood, brushing dust from her robes, casting one last glance at the place she’d once imagined dying in. Then she turned, spine straight, eyes dry.
“I’m coming.”
Orielle turned from the graves with a final glance, the echo of old voices still pulsing faintly at the edges of her mind. Elira walked beside her in silence, for once sensing that words might shatter something fragile. They passed under the arch of the East Hall, where stone pillars bore the carved names of every Ambassador that had ever lived — and died. Orielle didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. Her name would be etched there soon enough.
The corridors were colder here. Candlelight flickered against high, arched ceilings. The distant hum of chanting classes layered beneath the sound of their footsteps. By the time they entered the lecture hall, most of the others were already seated, robes pulled tight, eyes forward. At the center stood the Ambassador, motionless behind the stone lectern.
As Orielle and Elira settled into their seats, the Ambassador began.
“The origin of magic. Magic, as we know it today, has been performed in three traditional forms since the dawn of sorcery. First, the Celestants. Born with natural sensitivity to magic, they draw their power from the living world — from the rhythms of nature, the movements of the stars, and the elemental balance. Unlike us, their order is led by a democratic council, and their ambassador is chosen by the living.
Second, the Warlocks — the corrupted. Their origin is unknown, and they do not organize. They have no council. No leaders. No lands. They do not seek a place within society, and perhaps that is why they remain... tolerated. They live scattered, covered in shadow, untouched by order.
And last, us — the Oracles. We practice ancestral magic. Our power is not drawn from the living world, but from the dead. From memory. From blood. From legacy. We are led by the Ambassador — not selected by council or ceremony, but by exchange. A chosen Oracle gives up her life, and an ancestor takes her place.”
The lecture had ended, but the weight of it lingered. Orielle walked alone this time, her footsteps too fast for Elira to follow without questions. She didn’t want questions. She didn’t want comfort. She wanted a door. The hallway air was colder now, but her skin felt flushed. The words still echoed in her ears — “a chosen Oracle gives up her life” — recited with such certainty, such reverence, as if death were a blessing instead of a theft.
Orielle pushed through the arched threshold of the academy library, and silence swallowed her whole. Towering shelves lined the chamber, ancient tomes bound in dust and time watching her like silent jurors. She ducked into a shadowed aisle, heart pounding. The thoughts came fast, too sharp to swallow this time.
“Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe disgraceful. But I want to live. Not as a vessel. Not as a name carved into stone. Not as a voice for people who no longer bleed. I want to live. Free of everything I’ve been 'gifted'.”
Her fingers danced across brittle spines, scanning titles she didn’t fully understand — histories, prophecies, fragments of rituals. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. A loophole. A flaw in the system. A name no one spoke. A forgotten page that whispered: you don't have to die. The deeper she went into the shelves, the darker it became. Not a single candle lit this section. And still, she searched.
“Well now… look at that. Isn’t that the golden girl?”
Orielle froze. She turned toward the voice, and there he was — Mr. Delphi, Keeper of the Oracle Academy Library. He stood half-shadowed between shelves, a long, ink-stained robe brushing the floor, his silver hair tied back in a loose knot. His eyes — pale, almost white — caught the light in a way that made them shimmer like old paper.
“You walk like someone chasing ghosts,” he said, smiling faintly. “What is it you seek today, Lady Valtheris? You seem… unrested. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
There was no mockery in his tone, but something about the way he spoke made Orielle feel both seen and slightly cornered — as if he already knew the answer and was asking only to measure her courage. Orielle knew better than to speak the truth. Even a hint of doubt — the slightest crack in her role — could end in silence, punishment, or worse. So, she smoothed her voice, lowered her eyes just enough to appear reverent, and answered with carefully crafted humility.
“I want to know everything about the Sacrifice Day,” she said. “I want to be the best version of myself when the time comes. To honor the ancestors properly. But…”
She glanced at the shelf beside her, fingertips brushing a spine that flaked with age.
“I can’t seem to find anything about it. Not the details. Not what it’s actually like. It’s like it’s all just… missing.”
She turned to face him fully now, holding his gaze.
“Perhaps you could help me prepare?”
There was a pause. A long one. The kind that made the walls feel like they were leaning in to listen.
Mr. Delphi didn’t move — not in the usual sense. His body remained still, rigid in the way it always was, as if carved from something older than flesh. But something in the air around him shifted — like focus sharpening, like thought forming.
“How diligent,” he said at last. Then, with a voice quieter and edged in something colder, he added: “Very well… I may know someone who can provide you with the knowledge you desire.”
Orielle’s breath caught.
“As you know, the day of the Sacrifice is not powered by ancestral flow alone. It requires a binding — a magic older than ours, darker than most would admit. A ritual that can only be cast by one who walks in shadow. A Warlock.”
He let that word hang, like smoke curling in the space between them.
“And I know exactly who that will be.”
Orielle stayed silent, heart thudding. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or hope that made it beat faster.
“If you truly wish it,” Delphi continued, “I can arrange a meeting. But you must be prepared. Warlocks do not greet strangers with kindness. You will not find a welcoming face. Only truth — or consequence.”
Orielle didn’t speak right away. She forced herself to hold Mr. Delphi’s gaze, though her throat had tightened. She had only ever heard whispers about Warlocks — fragmented stories passed between students and hushed by instructors. None of them were kind. None of them felt safe. But she couldn’t afford to hesitate. So, she nodded, slowly.
“Yes. Arrange it.”
Delphi didn’t smile. He simply turned back toward the shadows between the shelves.
“Very well. I will send word when the path is open.”
And with that, he vanished into the quiet like a page turned and forgotten.
Orielle remained still for a long time after Mr. Delphi disappeared. The weight of what she had agreed to sat heavy in her bones, but there was no room to fall apart — not yet. She left the library quietly, slipping back into the waning daylight. The academy courtyard was nearly empty, its stone path dusted with golden leaves. The sky, as always, was pale and far away. And then she saw him. A figure seated on the fountain’s edge, sketching in his journal, oblivious to the world around him. Astrael Vaelen, a visiting student from the Academy of the Celestants. He always found the sunlight, even when there was none to be found.
Orielle slowed, just for a breath. She had never spoken more than a few words to him — never dared. Everyone knew what she was. What she would become. He had always been kind, in a distant sort of way. But kindness only went so far when your name was already written in stone. You don’t fall in love with the dead. Not if you want to stay whole. Still, she watched him for a moment longer. The curve of his brow as he frowned at the page. The way his thumb smudged the ink when he was too focused to care. She wondered what he was drawing, what it would be like to ask. Instead, Orielle drifted to a bench at the edge of the garden — not too close, but close enough to see him clearly. The Oracle Academy’s gardens were quiet this time of day, draped in soft gold from the sinking sun. Ivy curled along stone arches, and windchimes of bone and brass clinked softly in the breeze.
She opened her journal and let it rest across her lap, uncapping her pen with a practiced stillness. To anyone watching, she looked like a diligent student lost in thought. But she didn’t write. She watched him. Quietly. Carefully. The way his hand moved with focus. The way the wind stirred the corner of his page and he anchored it with a fingertip, never glancing up. Orielle let the pen hover, its tip never touching the paper. Just pretending.
Then, slowly, the surface of the page began to change. The ink shifted. Not from her pen — but from under it. Faint at first, like a whisper etched in dust. Then clearer. Ink darkening with intent, forming sharp, deliberate lines: “All set. Tonight at 11. Shadowmourn Bridge. – Delphi”
Orielle closed the journal gently, fingers tightening around the cover just enough to betray her sudden urgency. Her eyes lifted once, scanning the garden. Astrael hadn’t noticed. No one had. She stood, smoothed her robes, and walked quickly from the bench — not running, not looking back. Just steady, silent, focused. Her steps carried her across the stone paths of the Oracle Academy Garden with the practiced ease of someone trying not to be noticed. By the time she reached her dormitory, her heartbeat had doubled. She slipped inside and locked the door behind her with a quiet click. The room was dim, the way she always left it. No candlelight. No incense. Just the soft weight of stillness. Orielle crossed to the far corner, sat on the edge of her bed, and opened the journal once more. The message was still there, ink solid and stark against the parchment. She stared at it for a breath. Then tore the page cleanly from the spine. Holding it above her palm, she whispered: “Velmora.”
The word left her lips like a breath stolen from another time — soft, reverent, and final. The parchment twitched, then folded inward. Blackened. Curled. Within seconds, it was nothing but ash spun into the still air. Orielle stared at her hand until even the warmth was gone. Shadowmourn Bridge. Eleven. And no one could know.
“Orielle?” The voice came from behind her. She turned sharply. Elira stood in the doorway, just barely inside. Her eyes flicked to the fading ash in Orielle’s hand.
