anwhile, Alia and her grandfather, Persius Nades, boarded the first flight out of Lanura, arriving in Isla just as dawn broke across the horizon.
The island greeted them in a hush of gold and green. Dew clung stubbornly to every leaf and blade of grass, catching the early sunlight and scattering it into a thousand glittering fragnts—like diamonds strewn carelessly across the waking earth. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of earth and sothing older... sothing buried.
They were escorted to the southern region of the island, where the royal mausoleum stood—silent, imnse, and heavy with history.
The excavation and clearing of the site were nearly complete. What remained was the careful work: recording, docunting, preserving. Soon, this long-sealed place would be unveiled to select visitors from across the world.
But for now, it still belonged to the past.
"Amy, what are you doing here?"
Logan’s voice cut through the morning calm. He had been overseeing security arrangents, issuing quiet orders to stationed personnel, when he caught sight of her. Surprise flickered across his face at the unexpected presence of Liam’s fiancée.
"I’m here as a field scribe," Alia replied evenly. "Grandpa will be assisting with analyzing the historical narrative of the tomb."
Logan’s brows drew together slightly. "Does Liam know you’re here?"
Alia shook her head.
Though betrothed, she and Liam lived as if separated by more than distance.
Once, she had tried—sending greetings, small ssages, asking after his well-being. Most went unanswered. Eventually, she stopped trying.
"It’s not necessary," she said quietly.
Logan studied her for a mont, then nodded. "He’s assigned to the northeastern sector. My father’s here as well."
At that, Persius straightened slightly, interest lighting his aged features. "Ah, is he now? I would like to et him later."
But even as he spoke, his gaze had already drifted—drawn irresistibly toward the mausoleum’s entrance. There was a hunger in his eyes, the unmistakable pull of a scholar standing at the threshold of sothing extraordinary.
Alia noticed.
"I’ll arrange it, Grandpa," Logan said. Then, turning to Alia, he added, "I’ll escort you to your quarters first."
"Of course." Persius acknowledged.
Ordinarily, Logan would have delegated such a task to a junior officer. But this was Persius Nades—and Alia. Without another word, he personally led them toward the temporary housing set up for researchers and staff.
The path wound past tents, equipnt, and half-buried stone structures—remnants of sothing ancient clawing its way back into the present.
"Breakfast is served at the ss hall from six to eight," Logan reminded them casually as they walked.
Persius nodded absently, still half-lost in thought. Then, as if rembering sothing, he asked, "Where is Philip?"
"In his quarters," Logan replied. "He should be awake soon."
A brief silence followed.
Logan hesitated—just a fraction—but it did not go unnoticed.
Persius’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp despite his age. He understood that pause, that unspoken tension.
"Go," the old man said, waving a hand dismissively but not unkindly. "Attend to your duties. We’ll manage from here."
Logan exhaled softly, relief and obligation warring in his expression.
"Very well. I’ll check in on you later."
And with that, he turned and disappeared back into the growing bustle of the excavation site—leaving Alia and her grandfather standing at the edge of history.
...
Later that morning, Persius and Alia descended into the chamber buried two storeys beneath the earth.
The temperature dropped the deeper they went. The air grew still—unnaturally so—as if even ti itself hesitated to move in that place. Their footsteps echoed softly against the stone that had not felt human presence for centuries until recently.
The chamber opened before them like a forgotten world.
Towering pillars carved with intricate patterns lined the vast underground hall, their surfaces worn but not erased. Faded murals still being restored to their forr glory stretched across the walls—scenes of a civilization long lost, yet eerily familiar. Symbols Alia had seen countless tis in her grandfather’s study were etched into the stone, glowing faintly under the carefully placed excavation lights.
"Grandpa..." Alia’s voice wavered despite herself. "Why does this place feel exactly like the one described in your scrolls?"
A chill crept along her spine, cold and deliberate, as though the chamber itself had noticed her.
Persius did not answer imdiately.
His gaze moved slowly from the sarcophagi and then across the walls, drinking in every detail—the carvings, the inscriptions, the unmistakable crest half-buried beneath centuries of dust. His hands trembled ever so slightly.
So of the inscriptions, especially the ones inscribed on each sarcophagus, she could understand, but the others looked familiar, and she could not read them.
Alia swallowed.
All her life, her grandfather had told her stories—stories that felt too grand, too distant to be real.
That they were descendants of a royal bloodline.
That long ago, their ancestors ruled the empire of Azurverda.
That the founding emperor and empress had a princess, and she had borne a daughter, who abandoned power and married into a family of scholars.
From her, their line continued—not as rulers, but as keepers of knowledge.
Keepers of truth.
And then... the calamity.
The words from those ancient texts echoed in Alia’s mind.
A catastrophe had struck the empire’s heart—a disaster so devastating it nearly erased the Kromwel bloodline entirely. In its wake ca sothing worse: a purge.
Foreign powers who invated Azuverda, driven by hatred and fear, hunted down every last trace of the Kromwels.
They showed no rcy. They left no survivors.
Except...
A remnant had escaped.
So fled the east, others to the south. While the Nades forefathers fled north, shedding their na like a skin, burying their identity beneath generations of silence.
The legacy of the Kromwels survived only in whispers—hidden in fragile books, aging scrolls, and carefully preserved parchnts guarded with unwavering devotion.
And now...
Alia looked around the chamber again.
This place. This was not just similar to the stories.
It was the stories.
Her breath caught.
"...It’s real," she whispered.
Beside her, Persius stepped forward slowly, as if approaching sothing sacred.
His eyes glistened, red at the edges, overwheld by sothing far deeper than awe.
"Not just real," he said hoarsely. "This is it... the very place our ancestors wrote about."
He reached out, his fingers brushing against the ancient stone—against the crest that had survived ti, war, and oblivion.
For a mont, he simply stood there, trembling.
Then his voice broke, quiet but resolute.
"After all these generations... after all the hiding... the running..."
He closed his eyes, and a single tear slipped free.
"The legacy of our ancestors has finally returned to the light."
A long breath left him, heavy with decades—no, centuries—of burden carried through blood and mory.
"I can finally rest easy."
But as his words faded into the silence of the chamber, the air seed to grow heavier still—
As if sothing buried deep within those ruins had begun to stir.
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