The tower stones felt cold against Cael's palms as he leaned against the wall in his room, staring at the moonlit yard below.

The words from Edric's lecture still echoed in his head.

"As useless as a merchant's son."

Sleep refused to come. He'd thought working through the ledgers would quiet his mind, but the numbers only reminded him how fragile their household actually was.

His gaze drifted to the trinket lying next to it.

The locket.

It had been among his mother's belongings, or what little Edric hadn't burned. Matilde had smuggled it to him years ago, claiming it was nothing more than a keepsake. A thin chain and a flat oval of tarnished silver, etched faintly with something he couldn't quite read.

But lately, the weight of it had grown heavier. And tonight, for reasons he couldn't name, he couldn't stop staring at it.

Cael picked it up.

"You've stared at me long enough," he muttered to himself, his own voice dry and strange in the quiet.

He thumbed the tiny clasp and after years of trying, this time it opened.

Inside lay a scrap of parchment folded so tightly it looked like part of the lining. And behind it, a sliver of something darker, a lock of hair.

But it wasn't the parchment or the hair that caught him.

It was the faint sound.

He froze.

A whisper.

Not from outside or from the hall but from the locket itself.

Cael swallowed hard and held it closer to his ear.

"Little thorn…"

He flinched so violently he nearly dropped it.

That voice. It wasn't quite a woman's, nor entirely human. A breathy murmur, low and sad, almost knowing.

His chest tightened.

That word. Thorn.

It felt so familiar.

He pressed his thumb harder into the locket, almost bruising himself. The warmth deepened; threads of faint light, no, not light, more like memory, coiled up from the metal and over his fingers.

"…find me," the whisper breathed.

And then silence.

Cael closed the locket sharply and sat down on the edge of his cot, staring at it.

The room felt heavier now.

This wasn't the first time hearing the whispers around him.

It was just the first time it had called out to him.

He remembered the first signs: The whispers in the walls when he was younger. He'd assumed it was just old stone groaning at night. The way his eyes sometimes caught the faintest glimmer around people, as if he could see what they really meant, even when their words said otherwise. The way he always remembered everything. Perfectly. Painfully.

And now this.

Cael stood abruptly, locket clutched in his fist, and crossed the room. He dropped to one knee and slid his hand over the oldest stones in the floor, the ones at the base of the tower that hadn't been replaced in centuries.

Warm.

He pressed his palm flat and let the warmth bleed up his arm until the faint murmurs returned, not from the locket now, but from the stones themselves.

"Blood remembers…"

That again.

But this time, other voices joined it.

Faint. Male. Stern.

"…carry us further than the blade…""…don't squander what's left…""…we are watching, boy. Do not shame us."

The voices were sharper now, more distinct than they'd ever been.

Cael clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, letting them wash over him.

He didn't know how much of this was real, how much of it was him losing his mind in this cursed house. But deep down, somewhere beyond logic, he knew.

This was his.

Not the tower. Not the stones.

The blood in his veins.

He carried whatever this was.

When the whispers faded again, Cael finally sat back, breathing hard.

The locket lay on the floor next to him, still faintly warm.

He picked it up and held it tightly until the warmth dulled.

The faint glimmer in the stones receded. The air turned cold again.

But something had shifted.

The locket. The whispers. The way the tower seemed to hum under his feet when he really paid attention.

His mother had planned this. She'd left something for him, a trail, because she knew what he would become.

And maybe, just maybe, she'd left a way out of this cage after all.

Cael sat back on his cot and waited for morning, the locket still clutched in his hand.

For the first time in months, he didn't feel entirely powerless.

...

Cael woke with the locket still pressed to his palm, imprinting a faint crescent into his skin.

He hid it beneath his tunic before heading downstairs, slipping it back over his neck where nobody would notice.

Matilde caught him halfway to the hall. Her sharp eyes flicked to his hand, to his face.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she murmured, handing him a roll of bread.

"Maybe I have," Cael said flatly.

Her expression didn't change, but her eyes narrowed slightly, a glimmer of something he couldn't quite name. Recognition, perhaps.

She turned away without another word.

Later that evening, when the house quieted, Cael slipped back to his room and barred the door.

He set the locket on the desk and lit a single candle.

Then he unfolded the parchment he'd pried from inside.

It wasn't long. Just a single line.

The blood remembers what the mind forgets.

And beneath it, his mother's seal. The same he'd seen in the hidden room weeks ago.

Cael leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his teeth.

So that was it, then.

She'd known.

All the whispers in the walls, all the strange glimmers of light and memory, they weren't just random madness.

It was him.

His bloodline.

He tested it deliberately this time.

One hand on the locket. The other pressed against the stones of the wall.

This time the warmth surged immediately, rushing up his arms and down his spine, and the whispers rose to meet him, now clearer than ever.

"…we gave up the blade to keep the name alive…""…if you cannot master it, it will master you…""…do not waste what she bought you with her life…"

He pressed harder, gritting his teeth as the voices became a chorus of old Varissen men and women, their tones layered with bitterness, pride, and warning.

The sound of his own heartbeat grew deafening in his ears, almost drowning them out.

But then, beneath it all, the faintest echo of his mother again.

"Little thorn…"

His breath hitched.

"Don't let them cut you down before you bloom."

The warmth in his chest flared hot and then eased back into a dull throb.

Cael opened his eyes slowly, realizing his fingers were trembling.

When the whispers finally faded, Cael sat back, staring at the faint etching on the locket.

The blood remembers what the mind forgets.

It made sense now, at least enough to give him something to hold onto.

He could see things others couldn't.

Hear truths buried in the past.

Feel the echoes of people who'd come before. Whether Varissen or Ashveil, It didn't matter which family, house or person. As long as it was old enough and imprinted on enough, he could hear the past echoes.

The whispers weren't ghosts.

They weren't magic locked in the tower.

They were memories.

Impressions left behind by the living, woven into stone and blood, and he was the only one left who could still hear them.

Because of her.

Because of whatever she'd left in him.

Cael sat back in his chair, fingers drumming the wood as a faint, wry smile tugged at his lips.

Let Edric brag about swords and tournaments all he liked.

This quiet, strange thing in his blood, was sharper than any blade.

And it was his.

Later, as he blew out the candle and lay back on his cot, Cael closed his eyes and let the faint hum in the walls lull him toward sleep.

For the first time in his life, the whispers didn't frighten him.

They sounded almost… hopeful.

Almost like they were waiting for him to catch up.

And he intended to.

The blood remembers what the mind forgets.

And Cael Varissen had an excellent memory.

***

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