Chapter 169: Rekindling Old Flames 2

A flicker of warmth passed through Lara’s eyes.

Carefree Aramis—who laughed too easily for a prince, who never hesitated to stand between danger and those he chose to protect.

The one who had shielded her when she was still a nobody in borrowed armor… a woman disguised as a soldier, to deliver a message to the heart of the battlefield.

Back then, he risked his life for her.

Her gaze shifted upward. Higher.

As if the sculptor intended to remind anyone who looked—

Who stood above the rest.

King Alderan of Northem. Alaric’s younger brother.

His features were colder. Sharper. A king forged not by inheritance, but by survival.

And beside him—

Reuben.

Once a crown prince. Once a schemer.

A man who had played the game of power—and been devoured by it.

Yet he rose again, stronger and wiser. No longer chasing the throne, but standing beside it.

With Alderan—and Alaric behind them—he helped carve an era where Northem no longer bled for its future.

Loyal and unyielding. A shadow that never once left his king’s side.

Lara moved closer, standing on the tips of her toes, her hand finally brushing against the lower carvings—Aragon… Aramis…

“The kings…” Lara murmured, almost unconsciously. “And the princes of the vassal kingdoms.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Silence fell—

Every head turned.

Logan’s surprised gaze snapped to her.

Aquilo stilled.

Even the wind seemed to pause.

“Miss…” the local archaeologist said, stepping forward. “How did you know that?”

He had introduced himself earlier as Tony—but now, his tone carried something else.

Not curiosity but suspicion.

Lara froze—

Just for half a heartbeat.

She had been careless.

The realization cut clean and sharp.

A slow breath slipped past her lips as she steadied herself. Running now—pretending ignorance—would only bury the truth deeper.

No more hiding. She decided.

Not when history itself was laid bare before them… carved into stone, waiting to be remembered.

“This…” she said quietly, stepping closer to the pillar. Her hand lifted, fingers hovering before settling on a nearly invisible marking etched along the base of Aragon’s relief. “It’s written here.”

Tony leaned in, frowning hard, his eyes narrowing as he tried to follow her gesture.

“There’s nothing—”

“There is,” Lara interrupted, her tone calm, almost patient. “You just don’t know how to see it.”

Her fingertip traced the lines—faint, weathered, almost erased by time. To anyone else, they were nothing more than random scratches, scars left by centuries of wind and decay.

But to her, they were words. Clear and familiar.

A strange warmth stirred in her chest as her fingers moved instinctively along the script, as though guided by something deeper than memory.

Because she had written text using the script before.

Over and over.

On brittle scrolls that smelled of ink and ash… on rough parchments that scratched beneath her hand… and later, on finer sheets—thinner, smoother—crafted in an age that had begun to refine the old ways.

This language—

It wasn’t foreign to her. It belonged to the ancient Azurverda.

“Aragon Delmar,” she read softly. “King of Estalis.”

A sharp intake of breath echoed behind her.

She moved again and traced another inscription with her fingers.

“Alderan Kromwel… King of Northem.”

Something hit the ground.

Tony’s notebook.

He didn’t even notice.

His eyes were wide—staring at Lara as if she had just spoken a dead man’s language.

Because she had.

The foreign historian surged forward, closing the distance too quickly, invading her space as he crouched beside the carving.

“Impossible…” he muttered, fingers trembling just above the script. “This writing system… it’s been lost for centuries…”

He turned his head sharply—his gaze cutting into Lara.

“How do you know this?” His excited voice sounded hostile to Logan and Aquilo.

Logan moved first—one step forward, hand already reaching for Lara on instinct.

But Aquilo was faster.

In a single, fluid motion, he shifted into her path—his arm rising just enough to block, not overtly aggressive, yet unmistakably firm. A quiet wall. A warning.

“Easy,” Aquilo said, voice level—but carrying a dangerous edge beneath the calm. “She’s not going anywhere.”

The historian halted, both hands lifting in surrender—but his gaze stayed locked on Lara, sharp and probing.

“Hey—what’s wrong with you?” he shot back, his foreign accent clipping the words. “You’re acting like I’m about to attack her. I just want answers.”

Logan’s expression darkened instantly.

’So do predators,’ he muttered coldly.

The air tightened.

Aquilo didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

His eyes narrowed, stance unwavering—still shielding Lara as if the line had already been drawn, and crossing it would come at a cost.

For a moment, it felt like the fragile calm of the ruins might fracture into something far more violent.

Then—

Lara cleared her throat.

A small sound.

But it cut cleanly through the tension, pulling all attention back to her before it could escalate any further.

“I’ve always loved ancient history,” she said evenly. “I studied it. Read everything I could find.”

A faint pause.

Then, quieter—

“It’s a pity… Azuverda lost so much when it was conquered and colonized. Our history… our language…”

She let the words linger, heavy with something deeper than mere regret.

“…they were erased.”

The wind surged without warning—strong and untamed—snatching the cap from her head. It tumbled away, and with it, her restraint.

Strands of light brown hair spilled free, catching the early afternoon sun, each lock gleaming like molten copper as it danced wildly around her face.

Aquilo’s breath hitched.

“I thought you lost your memory.”

His voice came low—almost a whisper meant only for her.

Lara didn’t look at him immediately.

“I did,” she said.

Then slowly, she turned and held his gaze.

“But some things…” she added, her voice softer now, almost distant, “aren’t stored the same way.”

Her fingers brushed the carving again.

“The moment I saw it—I understood it.”

A faint, almost fragile smile touched her lips.

“Like muscle memory.”

Aquilo’s expression changed.

The casual ease was gone.

What remained was something sharper. Heavier.

His dark eyes locked onto hers—searching, probing, unwilling to let go.

“Then…” he said quietly,

“…don’t you remember us?”

The question hung between them—

More dangerous than any ancient secret buried beneath the ruins.

Because this time—

It wasn’t history demanding answers.

It was the past.

And Lara—

Had no idea which version of it would surface next.

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