Chapter 19: A Name Not Spoken

Later that evening, deep within The Hollow…

The flicker of pale flame danced along the cavern walls, casting long shadows across the icy stone. Aurette sat beside her mother, wrapped in a thick cloak as the cold clung stubbornly to the underground chamber. Neither of them spoke for a while—just silence, shared like an old, familiar companion.

Seralyne was the one to finally break it.

“We lost many… too many,” she said softly, her voice laced with exhaustion. “Half our sentries. Nearly all from the outer districts. Civilians… families who had no time to run.”

Aurette remained still, listening.

“There was a man…” Seralyne’s gaze drifted distantly, as if reliving the moment. “We thought he was their leader. He moved with such terrifying force, such precision. He cut down our vanguard like they were nothing. We threw everything we had at him. The elite, the old guard, even myself.”

She paused.

“But he didn’t fall. He didn’t even tire.”

Aurette looked over, quietly. “Who was he?”

Seralyne’s lips pressed into a thin line. “We don’t know his true name. But the banners he wore were unlike anything we've seen before. Black and silver, a jagged mark across the crest. From what little we learned… he serves someone else. Someone greater. Which means…”

“He wasn’t the leader,” Aurette finished for her, the weight of it sinking in.

Seralyne nodded grimly. “Just the second. And even he was nearly unstoppable.”

There was a pause between them, heavy.

“We would have died,” Seralyne continued. “I was prepared to make peace with it. And then the winds changed.”

Aurette glanced up, slowly.

“The storm came. A wall of cold and fury—thicker than anything we’ve known. It rushed down like a judgment from the gods… but it didn’t touch us. It broke around us like a wave on stone. It tore the battlefield apart. Even that man—he fled, or was forced to. I don’t know.”

Aurette swallowed. “So you felt it too.”

Seralyne nodded slowly. “I never believed in fate. But now…” She didn’t finish that sentence.

The silence returned briefly—until Seralyne spoke again, her voice lower this time.

“We won’t survive like this for long, Aurette. We’ve rationed the water beneath Caelrhime, but the flow is weak. And the food… it’ll barely last a week more. Two at most, and only if we start skipping meals.”

Aurette’s hands clenched slightly in her lap. “We’ll figure something out.”

Seralyne looked at her, tired eyes searching her daughter’s face. “You came back changed. You’ve seen more than I could have prepared you for.”

Aurette’s voice was quiet. “We all have.”

“Then you understand what’s coming,” Seralyne said softly. “And why we need to prepare — not just for the next battle, but for what happens if Caelrhime falls.”

Aurette nodded, her eyes steady now. “We won’t let that happen.”

The flickering flame had burned low, leaving only a faint glow in the hollow chamber. Most had retired to rest, but Aurette and Seralyne remained, the air between them thick with things unsaid.

Aurette broke the silence, her voice soft but steady.

“Mother… there’s something else.”

Seralyne turned her gaze to her daughter, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.

“In the days I spent unconscious… I dreamt of someone,” Aurette began. “A woman. She stood in the storm. Tall, calm. Her eyes were pale as frost, but… she felt familiar. Like she was part of me.”

Seralyne listened quietly.

“She didn’t speak, but I felt safe near her. I remember her name—Eluria. When I woke up, it lingered. It’s been haunting me.”

Seralyne’s expression subtly shifted. She exhaled slowly.

“That is a name not spoken lightly.”

Aurette tilted her head, puzzled. “Who was she?”

Seralyne’s eyes softened, a shadow of reverence flickering in them.

“Eluria Rhimehart. The founder of Caelrhime.”

Aurette blinked, taken aback.

“What? But I thought it was Lyria Veyrath who founded the clan.”

Seralyne gave a faint nod.

“Yes… and no. Lyria was the one who built the clan, who gathered the people and laid the first stones of our home. But it was Eluria who gave her the reason to.”

She looked to the ceiling, the flame casting ghostly shapes across the icy stone.

“Eluria was her sister figure. The first to wield the gift of the storm. A solitary figure—strong, distant, and revered. They say she vanished before Caelrhime was ever built… but her power lingered. Her ideals inspired Lyria to begin anew. To form a haven for those who followed the path of frost.”

Aurette sat in silence, letting the weight of the name settle over her.

“She was a Rhimehart… just like me.”

Seralyne nodded. “The name Eluria is only passed down among the Rhimehart bloodline. Even I should not have known… but your father—before he passed—he told me. He said, ‘If Caelrhime ever faces its end… Eluria will return. In some way or form. She will protect it.’”

Aurette’s voice trembled slightly.

“You think… that woman in the storm… she was her?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Seralyne replied, “but the signs are difficult to ignore. You saw her. We were saved. Somehow, she may still watch over us.”

Aurette lowered her head, unsure what to feel—honour, fear, confusion.

“I never believed I was worthy of this bloodline… of anything beyond the blade.”

Seralyne reached out gently, placing a hand over Aurette’s.

“Then perhaps she appeared to show you that you are.”

There was a moment of stillness. Then Seralyne stood slowly, her voice now formal—resolute.

“There is a book,” she said. “Passed down from head of family of Rhimehart—written by Lyria herself. I have never opened it. I feared what it might ask of me.”

She looked back at Aurette.

“If this war ends… if we survive this…” Seralyne’s voice softened again, proud and wistful.

“Then you shall read it. And you shall become the next Patriarch of Caelrhime.”

Aurette didn’t answer at first. Her gaze drifted to the dying firelight, then to her hands. When she finally spoke, it was with a quiet strength that hadn’t been there before.

“Then I’ll live for that moment. And fight for it. No matter what comes.”

Later that night, the hollow was cloaked in quiet, the only sound the occasional crackle of the dying fire. Aurette sat by the entrance, the weight of the conversation with her mother pressing on her mind.

Suddenly, the heavy door creaked open, and a figure appeared—a scout, breath ragged from hurried travel. His eyes were sharp, flickering with urgency as he approached Seralyne and Aurette.

“Patriarch, Lady Aurette,” he said, lowering his voice though the tension was palpable. “The storm—the fierce tempest that has held the lands at bay for days—is finally starting to settle.”

Seralyne’s brow furrowed.

“This means…”

The scout’s gaze darkened.

“Yes. The storm was both shield and barrier. It kept the enemy’s forces at bay, slowed their advance, and masked our movements. But with its passing… the enemy will see the window opening. They will not waste this chance. Vaerond’s men, or whoever leads this assault—they are gathering strength, waiting for the storm to clear.”

Aurette’s fists clenched at her sides.

“So, the calm is a danger in itself.”

The scout nodded grimly.

“Yes, Patriarch. We must prepare for what’s coming. This reprieve may be short.”

Before dawn, the camp was restless with unease. The storm had finally begun to wane, leaving behind a heavy silence that pressed on everyone’s nerves.

Suddenly, the gate swung open once more, and a scout hurried in, breathless and wide-eyed.

“Patriarch! Lady Aurette!” he called out urgently. “Our scouts have been watching the enemy’s camp since nightfall.”

Seralyne’s eyes sharpened.

“Speak quickly. What do they do?”

The scout swallowed hard, voice low but tense.

“The storm cleared late last night. Since then, the enemy forces have been stirring—arming themselves, tightening ranks, readying supplies. They haven’t moved yet, but all signs point to an imminent attack.”

Aurette’s jaw tightened.

“So they wait… like predators, watching for the perfect moment.”

The scout nodded grimly.

“Yes, Lady Aurette. Their war drums are silent for now, but their movements are deliberate and focused. We have little time before they make their move.”

A heavy hush fell over the camp as everyone absorbed the warning. The calm after the storm was just the eye of the storm itself—the real battle was about to begin.