Chapter 181: Her Ancestry

Meanwhile, Amelia and her grandfather, Persius Nades, boarded the first flight out of Lanura, arriving in Isla just as dawn broke across the horizon.

The island greeted them in a hush of gold and green. Dew clung stubbornly to every leaf and blade of grass, catching the early sunlight and scattering it into a thousand glittering fragments—like diamonds strewn carelessly across the waking earth. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of earth and something older… something buried.

They were escorted to the southern region of the island, where the royal mausoleum stood—silent, immense, and heavy with history.

The excavation and clearing of the site were nearly complete. What remained was the careful work: recording, documenting, preserving. Soon, this long-sealed place would be unveiled to select visitors from across the world.

But for now, it still belonged to the past.

“Amy, what are you doing here?”

Logan’s voice cut through the morning calm. He had been overseeing security arrangements, issuing quiet orders to stationed personnel, when he caught sight of her. Surprise flickered across his face at the unexpected presence of Liam’s fiancée.

“I’m here as a field scribe,” Amelia replied evenly. “Grandpa will be assisting with analyzing the historical narrative of the tomb.”

Logan’s brows drew together slightly. “Does Liam know you’re here?”

Amelia shook her head.

Though betrothed, she and Liam lived as if separated by more than distance.

Once, she had tried—sending greetings, small messages, asking after his well-being. Most went unanswered. Eventually, she stopped trying.

“It’s not necessary,” she said quietly.

Logan studied her for a moment, then nodded. “He’s assigned to the northeastern sector. My father’s here as well.”

At that, Persius straightened slightly, interest lighting his aged features. “Ah, is he now? I would like to meet him later.”

But even as he spoke, his gaze had already drifted—drawn irresistibly toward the mausoleum’s entrance. There was a hunger in his eyes, the unmistakable pull of a scholar standing at the threshold of something extraordinary.

Amelia noticed.

“I’ll arrange it, Grandpa,” Logan said. Then, turning to Amelia, he added, “I’ll escort you to your quarters first.”

“Of course.” Persius acknowledged.

Ordinarily, Logan would have delegated such a task to a junior officer. But this was Persius Nades—and Amelia. Without another word, he personally led them toward the temporary housing set up for researchers and staff.

The path wound past tents, equipment, and half-buried stone structures—remnants of something ancient clawing its way back into the present.

“Breakfast is served at the mess hall from six to eight,” Logan reminded them casually as they walked.

Persius nodded absently, still half-lost in thought. Then, as if remembering something, he asked, “Where is Philip?”

“In his quarters,” Logan replied. “He should be awake soon.”

A brief silence followed.

Logan hesitated—just a fraction—but it did not go unnoticed.

Persius’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp despite his age. He understood that pause, that unspoken tension.

“Go,” the old man said, waving a hand dismissively but not unkindly. “Attend to your duties. We’ll manage from here.”

Logan exhaled softly, relief and obligation warring in his expression.

“Very well. I’ll check in on you later.”

And with that, he turned and disappeared back into the growing bustle of the excavation site—leaving Amelia and her grandfather standing at the edge of history.

…

Later that morning, Persius and Amelia descended into the chamber buried two storeys beneath the earth.

The temperature dropped the deeper they went. The air grew still—unnaturally so—as if even time itself hesitated to move in that place. Their footsteps echoed softly against the stone that had not felt human presence for centuries until recently.

The chamber opened before them like a forgotten world.

Towering pillars carved with intricate patterns lined the vast underground hall, their surfaces worn but not erased. Faded murals still being restored to their former glory stretched across the walls—scenes of a civilization long lost, yet eerily familiar. Symbols Amelia had seen countless times in her grandfather’s study were etched into the stone, glowing faintly under the carefully placed excavation lights.

“Grandpa…” Amelia’s voice wavered despite herself. “Why does this place feel exactly like the one described in your scrolls?”

A chill crept along her spine, cold and deliberate, as though the chamber itself had noticed her.

Persius did not answer immediately.

His gaze moved slowly from the sarcophagi and then across the walls, drinking in every detail—the carvings, the inscriptions, the unmistakable crest half-buried beneath centuries of dust. His hands trembled ever so slightly.

Some of the inscriptions, especially the ones inscribed on each sarcophagus, she could understand, but the others looked familiar, and she could not read them.

Amelia swallowed.

All her life, her grandfather had told her stories—stories that felt too grand, too distant to be real.

That they were descendants of a royal bloodline.

That long ago, their ancestors ruled the empire of Azurverda.

That the founding emperor and empress had a princess, and she had borne a daughter, who abandoned power and married into a family of scholars.

From her, their line continued—not as rulers, but as keepers of knowledge.

Keepers of truth.

And then… the calamity.

The words from those ancient texts echoed in Amelia’s mind.

A catastrophe had struck the empire’s heart—a disaster so devastating it nearly erased the Kromwel bloodline entirely. In its wake came something worse: a purge.

Foreign powers who invated Azuverda, driven by hatred and fear, hunted down every last trace of the Kromwels.

They showed no mercy. They left no survivors.

Except…

A remnant had escaped.

Some fled the east, others to the south. While the Nades forefathers fled north, shedding their name like a skin, burying their identity beneath generations of silence.

The legacy of the Kromwels survived only in whispers—hidden in fragile books, aging scrolls, and carefully preserved parchments guarded with unwavering devotion.

And now…

Amelia looked around the chamber again.

This place. This was not just similar to the stories.

It was the stories.

Her breath caught.

“…It’s real,” she whispered.

Beside her, Persius stepped forward slowly, as if approaching something sacred.

His eyes glistened, red at the edges, overwhelmed by something far deeper than awe.

“Not just real,” he said hoarsely. “This is it… the very place our ancestors wrote about.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing against the ancient stone—against the crest that had survived time, war, and oblivion.

For a moment, he simply stood there, trembling.

Then his voice broke, quiet but resolute.

“After all these generations… after all the hiding… the running…”

He closed his eyes, and a single tear slipped free.

“The legacy of our ancestors has finally returned to the light.”

A long breath left him, heavy with decades—no, centuries—of burden carried through blood and memory.

“I can finally rest easy.”

But as his words faded into the silence of the chamber, the air seemed to grow heavier still—

As if something buried deep within those ruins had begun to stir.

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