Chapter 5: Echoes in the Chest
of
"Have You Someone to Protect?"
By ©Amer
It began with dust and frustration.
Lhady wiped her hands on her skirt and sighed, squinting through the shaft of golden afternoon light that filtered through the warped windows of the bookshop. She had been here for hours, sifting through the forgotten corners of the place, and her patience was wearing thin. "This place is impossible. How did your contact even know there was something here?"
Caelum didn't answer immediately. His gaze was locked on the rows of weathered tomes, his fingers tracing the spines of forgotten knowledge as though seeking something elusive. "She didn't know," he said, his voice low. "She suspected." He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "This shop was once a front—a place owned by a scribe tied to the old court."
Lhady muttered something under her breath. "Records and ghosts," she muttered, pushing aside a stack of neglected volumes. "We've been at this for hours."
Caelum gave a soft, amused grunt. "Impatient for a scholar's bloodline?"
Lhady shot him a sharp look, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed the sarcasm in her tone. "If there's a secret chest buried here," she grumbled, "I should've found it by now. I've lived here my whole life."
The shop was silent save for the creaking of the floorboards beneath their steps, the steady rhythm of dust rising in the air. Lhady's frustration grew as she continued to search through old books and scrolls, her hands growing stiff and sore with each movement. She had no reason to expect anything to happen, and yet… something felt wrong. She should have found it by now.
But then—something shifted.
The air grew thick, as if a presence had entered, and for a moment, the sunlight outside dimmed, the world outside slipping into shadow. Lhady's fingers froze mid-motion, a strange hum vibrating through the wooden floor beneath her, rattling in her chest.
"Did you feel that?" she whispered.
Caelum was slow to respond, his attention divided between the ancient shelves and her stillness. "Feel what?" he asked, voice soft, uncertain.
Lhady's eyes narrowed. She turned, her gaze drawn to the far corner of the room, where the shelves merged with the encroaching shadows. The hum had faded, but an odd energy lingered in the air—a warmth that seemed to shimmer faintly, like sunlight trapped in glass. Something about that corner beckoned to her, a quiet call she couldn't ignore.
Without thinking, she stepped forward.
"I—" she began, but Caelum's hand was already on her arm, pulling her to a halt.
"Careful," he warned, his voice sharp with a note of urgency. "You don't know what—"
Lhady shook her head, brushing past him, her heart beating faster now. The floorboards groaned beneath her boots as she approached the corner, her pulse quickening with every step. She could almost feel something guiding her, a pull that was stronger than mere curiosity. The air was growing heavier the closer she got.
She reached for the edge of a row of old ledgers, their brittle spines giving way under her touch, and that was when she saw it—a glint of gold, barely visible beneath the clutter.
She reached down, brushing aside the dusty remnants of books and scrolls. And there, tucked in the shadows, was a medallion—ornate, delicate filigree winding around its edges. It gleamed faintly in the dim light, a symbol of something ancient.
The moment her fingers closed around it, the room seemed to breathe. The air shifted, a strange pulse emanating from the medallion, and for a moment, time itself seemed to stand still.
"Lhady—" Caelum's voice broke through the stillness, but his words faltered as the medallion began to glow, pulsing once, then twice, then thrice. A soft, distant whisper echoed through the shop, its words fragmented but unmistakable:
"The chest... must be opened. The truth... will find you."
Lhady's heart raced. She stumbled backward, breath caught in her chest, the weight of those words sinking deep into her soul. She turned the medallion over in her hand, studying the markings, but they were unfamiliar, though the intricate pattern tugged at something buried in her memory.
Then, as if summoned by the medallion itself, the air shifted again. This time, it was warmer, almost soothing, as though the room itself was urging them forward.
Lhady's eyes flicked downward, drawn to a faint glimmer beneath the dust-covered floorboards. She saw it—a slight corner, a line that didn't belong, hidden beneath the years of neglect. She leaned down, her breath catching in her throat.
"Caelum…" she whispered, her voice trembling. "It's here."
Caelum followed her gaze, his brow furrowing in suspicion. Kneeling beside her, he helped her uncover a worn panel in the floor, its edges blending so seamlessly with the wood that it was almost impossible to tell it was there. The moment her fingers brushed it, a soft hum returned, stronger now, pulling them closer. It was as though the chest was calling them, a quiet but undeniable summons.
Together, they pushed. The panel creaked open.
Beneath it: a chest.
Lhady swallowed hard, her breath suddenly shallow. This wasn't just chance. This wasn't coincidence. Something far greater had led them here, and the chest that lay before them was more than an object—it was a key, a catalyst, a promise.
They exchanged a brief glance, a wordless understanding passing between them. Caelum reached into his satchel, pulling out the pendant—the one the masked man had mistaken for the Sigil of Veritas. A faint shiver of recognition passed through Lhady. Her heart pounded as Caelum pressed the pendant into the indentation on the chest.
It clicked.
The chest opened.
Dust swirled up like the breath of the dead.
And then—something more.
The pendant in Caelum's hand dissolved into a wisp of silver light, shimmering once before scattering into the air. The room fell unnaturally still. The scent of lavender and ash filled the space, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath.
And then—everything shattered.
Caelum fell—not physically, but inward, as though he were being dragged into a memory or a dream. He found himself standing in the great hall of the Citadel, though it shimmered like a mirage, distorting as though it were not entirely real. Before him, the Highness stood—faceless but unmistakable, cloaked in the light of authority and shadow.
"You are to protect her," the voice boomed, deep and thunderous, reverberating in the air like the rumble of the earth. "You are to protect her above all things. Let nothing cloud your purpose. Let no bond, no desire, no fear lead you astray."
Caelum tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. The air was thick with the weight of the command, and the ground beneath his feet seemed to crack like ice. Then the visions began to flicker, brief flashes of memory and prophecy.
He saw Lhady—a child, small and laughing, holding a book too large for her hands. She was so young, so innocent. And he, watching from the shadows of the archives, a silent observer.
Then, a flash—a room bathed in firelight, smoke curling in the air. A figure on the floor—a man, Lhady's guardian, pale and still, barely breathing.
Above him, a silhouette knelt, the features blurred by time or magic. The man was not striking—nothing special about him—but Caelum could feel the tension in his stance. Rigid. Precise. Like a soldier. Like his father.
Then, the hand of the fallen guardian slipped from the other's arm and fell to the floor. From the blurred man's cloak, something small and golden dropped to the ground. A royal insignia.
Caelum's breath caught in his throat, and the vision twisted—shadows coiling tighter around him.
Something about that posture.
That presence.
It was like how his father once stood. How he moved during training. How he carried silence like a weapon.
The vision snapped shut in an instant, leaving Caelum gasping, his mind reeling.
Lhady gasped, the air in her lungs stolen by the force of the vision that had overtaken her. Her body was still kneeling beside the chest, but her mind was elsewhere, pulled into the past like an involuntary spectator. She stood in the apothecary garden behind her childhood home, the sky bathed in violet dusk, the soft laughter of the past ringing through the air. Her guardian was there, his kind eyes warm as he crouched beside her, teaching her the names of the roots and flowers.
"You won't understand now," he said softly, tucking a sprig of green behind her ear. "But you will. When the stars change. When the chest opens."
Lhady reached for him, but as her fingers stretched out, the scene flickered, rippling like water disturbed by an unseen breeze. The light grew dimmer.
Now, the same man stood at a wooden table in their study. He was older, more tired, his hands trembling as he poured dark liquid into a small cup. His back was to her, and his movements were slow, deliberate. There was no fight here, no shadowy enemy. Only quiet surrender.
He knelt, slowly, and drank.
The cup clattered to the floor, but the man did not rise again.
The edges of the vision began to blur further, unraveling like a tapestry torn by unseen hands. And then, another voice—softer, yet firm.
Her brother.
He appeared beside her, younger than she remembered, his face illuminated by the flickering candlelight as he worked on an amulet. His fingers moved with skill and care, stringing wire through the delicate charm.
"You'll need this one day," he said absently, his voice distant, almost lost in time. "And when you find the truth, remember—you were always meant to. Not because you're strong, but because you listen."
He looked up then, his gaze steady, yet full of sorrow. His eyes spoke of things unsaid, of burdens that had always been meant for her, long before she could bear them.
Lhady reached for him, desperate to understand, but the vision fell apart in her hands, slipping through her fingers like sand.
They returned to the present with a suddenness that took their breath away. Both gasped, their hearts pounding in their chests as they found themselves back in the shop.
The chest lay open before them, revealing its contents:
A locket, etched with the true Sigil of Veritas—subtle, elegant, unmistakable.
A half-burned letter, the edges blackened by flame, the words half-swallowed by the fire.
And a pendant—a royal relic Caelum had seen in the archives, tied to exiled bloodlines and the guardians of truth.
This was no mere box of relics. It was a story pieced together in fragments, a riddle of heritage and silence.
Lhady reached for the letter. Her fingers trembled as she read the faded script. "It's my brother's," she said, her voice shaking. "I'd know this handwriting anywhere."
The words were fragmented: "The truth must be preserved…", "They are returning…", "When the twin moons cross…"
It wasn't enough to reveal the whole story—but it was enough to shift the ground beneath them, to show them that everything they thought they knew was wrong.
"My family," Lhady whispered, "they weren't just apothecaries. They were part of something older. Something buried."
Caelum looked at her, truly looked, and something inside him warred. His orders still echoed in his mind, cold and unyielding: Protect. Do not fail.
But the visions lingered. The warnings. His father's shadow.
The truth wasn't just hers to uncover. It was his as well. And it was heavier than he ever imagined.
Across the room, the key pendant was gone—vanished, as if it had never existed. But the door it had opened would not close again.