# 🌊 SHE PASSED OUT AT THE AUCTION BLOCK — UNTIL THE TIDE KING'S WOLF TORE THROUGH EVERY CHAIN TO CLAIM HER

The descent into the catacombs beneath Stormhold was a journey into absolute darkness. Torches flared with sickly green flames as Rovik and Aiel navigated the spiraling stone stairs carved deep into the black cliffs below sea level. The sound of crashing waves echoed through the damp walls, growing louder with every step.

At the bottom of the spiral stood a massive door of solid iron, etched with sprawling dragon-and-tide sigils that pulsed with a faint, crimson light.

"This is it," Rovik stopped, holding his torch high. "The Sunken Vault. The blood-wards are active."

As they approached, the crimson sigils flared violently, and a spectral barrier of crackling red energy materialized across the doorway, blocking their path. A heavy, suffocating pressure filled the corridor, making it difficult to breathe.

"The barrier recognizes royal blood," Rovik said, looking at Aiel. "You have to open it."

Aiel stepped forward, her heart hammering not with fear, but with a strange, magnetic pull. She pressed her bare palm directly against the glowing crimson barrier.

The moment her skin touched the magic, the red light flared blindingly bright.

A sharp pain lanced through her palm as the barrier tested her essence, digging deep into her memories, her trauma, her survival. Visions of Coldfell Market flashed before her eyes—the auction block, the iron collar, the dusty moth on the lantern post, the cold stone floor.

Who are you? a ancient, disembodied voice echoed in her mind.

I am Aiel of the First House, she thought back, her voice echoing with absolute, unyielding conviction through the psychic link. I am the tide that returns.

The crimson barrier shivered. The red light instantly shifted into a brilliant, warm golden hue. With a deep, groaning sound of grinding metal, the massive iron door swung inward, revealing a vast subterranean chamber filled with ancient scrolls, glittering chests of stolen royal gold, and glowing crystal artifacts.

Rovik smiled, stepping inside with her. "Magnificent."

They began searching through the iron-bound ledgers stacked along the stone shelves. Within minutes, Aiel pulled a heavy, leather-bound journal bearing Lord Vane’s personal crest from a dark alcove.

She flipped open the pages—and stopped dead.

"Rovik," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Look at this."

Rovik leaned over her shoulder, reading the faded ink entries. It was a ledger of correspondence between Lord Vane and an unknown benefactor inside the royal palace—dated twelve years ago, detailing the exact payment for the assassination of the Northern King and Queen, and the clandestine delivery of the four-year-old princess to the Salt Marsh Alpha.