“This way,” you say, turning from the main avenue.

Tommin frowns. “The ceremony is that way. Everyone’s waiting.”

“I know. I just…” You don’t have words for it. The need to escape the crowds. The feeling that something in the side streets is calling to you. “I need a moment. You three go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Sera hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

They exchange glances, but they go. Tommin shrugging, Sera looking back over her shoulder, Lira not looking back at all. Soon they’re swallowed by the crowd on the main avenue, and you’re alone.

The back streets of Eldermoor are quieter. Older. The buildings here date from the city’s founding—stone walls worn smooth by centuries of rain, narrow passages that remember when Eldermoor was a village instead of a city.

You walk without destination, letting your feet carry you.

And they carry you somewhere impossible.

You stop in front of a building you’ve never seen before. Low and ancient, tucked between two newer structures like a secret being kept. Its stones are a different color than anything else in Eldermoor—darker, with a faint purple veins running through them.

The door is open.

Every instinct tells you to walk away. To rejoin the others. To attend the ceremony like you’re supposed to.

But your hand is already pushing the door wider.

Inside, the air smells of dust and time. Faint light filters through windows so dirty they’re nearly opaque. And on the far wall, barely visible in the gloom—

A mural.

Four figures, painted in colors that have faded but not disappeared. A man in armor, a woman in midnight blue, a man draped in gold, a woman wrapped in vines.

The founders.

You’ve seen their statues in the square a thousand times. But this painting is different. Older. And the expressions on their faces…

Three of them look peaceful. Resolved. As if they know what’s coming and have accepted it.

The fourth—the man in armor—

His face has been scratched away. Gouged from the wall with something sharp, leaving only a dark hollow where his features should be.

And beneath the mural, carved into the stone in letters you can barely read:

REMEMBER THE TRUTH. THE SHIELDBORN LIES.

Your blood runs cold.

The bells ring out across the city. The ceremony is starting.

You stumble back from the mural, out of the building, into the daylight.

Whatever you just found, whatever it means—it will have to wait.

You run toward the ceremony grounds, the words echoing in your mind.

The Shieldborn lies.