Page 67 of Embers of Ruin

Brother Tolum glances between the man named Brother Gustav and me before lowering his voice.

“There are... very few records about Queen Seraphine.” He hesitates. “The ones that survived don’t always agree.”

My curiosity sharpens immediately.

“I'd like to see them.”

The young scholar disappears between two towering shelves before returning with a brittle scroll tied in faded blue ribbon.

“I don't think this will tell you what you're looking for,” he admits, carefully placing it on the table between us. “But... it’s one of the oldest surviving references we have.”

Brother Gustav appears beside him, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robes.

“Brother Tolum has an unfortunate habit of digging where he should not.”

Brother Tolum offers an entirely unapologetic smile. “It’s in the Old Language,” he says, gently unrolling the parchment. The ink has faded to a rusty brown, curling across the page in elegant symbols that make something stir at the back of my mind. They feel... familiar.

Too familiar.

“I can't read it,” I murmur before I can stop myself.

“No one can,” Brother Tolum replies. “Not completely.”

He traces a careful finger beneath one line.

“The language predates modern Solaris by centuries. Most of our translations are... educated guesses.”

“Ah. How comforting.”

“I thought so, too.”

Brother Gustav sighs but Brother Tolum ignores him.

“This passage appears in several fragmented texts.” He glances between us before continuing. “Every version is damaged, and none of them agree perfectly, but the central idea remains consistent.”

His voice grows quieter as he reads from the notes scribbled in the margins.

When shadow devours the land and the gods fall silent, one born beneath forgotten light shall awaken what was lost.

The Cursebreaker shall mend what was broken.

The sleeping land shall breathe again.

Silence settles over the table as I stare at the words that I can’t read.

“They think…” I begin slowly, “...someone can actually end the curse?”

Brother Tolum shrugs. “Some scholars believe it’s a metaphor.”

“And the others?”

“They believe Solaris was never meant to remain cursed forever.”

My heart gives one heavy beat. “A cure,” I whisper.

Brother Gustav’s expression remains unreadable.

“A possibility,” he corrects gently.