The night was thick with smoke and silence.
In the aftermath of the confrontation, Kael stood on the battlements, the wind tugging at his cloak, his eyes locked on the far-off silhouette of the crumbling city of Vehrros. Lightning flickered in the distance, casting skeletal shadows over the distant towers. The rain hadn't started yet, but it was coming—the air was saturated with the promise of a storm.
Below him, the keep slept restlessly. Footsteps echoed every so often, muffled voices carrying the brittle edges of fear. Word of Rhysten's death had spread like wildfire, and with it, the fragile trust that had once bound their fractured alliance was burning down.
Kael's knuckles tightened on the parapet wall. Every death carved another scar into his soul, but Rhysten—damn it, that one hurt more than he dared admit.
Inside the war room, Elyra paced.
Her side still ached from the wound, but she refused to let it slow her. The pain reminded her she was alive. That Rhysten wasn't. And that someone had to keep fighting.
Vespera sat at the edge of the table, a glass of untouched wine in her hand. Her eyes were distant, hooded. She hadn't spoken since the argument earlier that day. Since Kael had all but promised blood if she failed them again.
Elyra stopped pacing and faced her. "Why haven't you left yet?"
Vespera blinked slowly. "Because if I did, the Pale Flame would win. And despite what you may think, I haven't chosen them."
"But you haven't chosen us either," Elyra said sharply.
There was silence. A long, simmering pause.
Then Vespera whispered, "I haven't chosen anything. Not yet."
That night, dreams came clawing.
Elyra woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. Her vision blurred as the memory of Starflame's eyes—agonized, pleading—flashed behind her eyelids. In her dream, she had been the one chaining the dragon. Her hands had been stained with ash and gold.
She stumbled from her cot, breath hitching.
Kael found her in the corridor moments later. "Bad dream?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she looked at him, really looked at him—and for a heartbeat, the walls between them thinned.
"I saw myself hurting her," Elyra whispered. "Hurting Starflame. Like I was... someone else."
Kael's voice was low, rough. "We all have shadows inside us. Doesn't mean we let them rule."
She shook her head. "But what if I do?"
"You won't." He stepped closer. "Because you're not alone."
Their hands brushed. A spark. A heartbeat.
Then she pulled away. Too much. Too soon.
In the bowels of the keep, the sealed chamber pulsed.
Ancient magic twisted in the dark, threads of violet and silver tangling in unseen knots. The tome Elyra had found back in the ruins now lay open on an obsidian altar, its pages fluttering despite the still air.
Vespera stood before it.
She spoke a name.
The chamber answered with silence… and then, a voice. A whisper. Cold, sweet, and utterly wrong.
"I see you."
Vespera's heart thundered.
"Will you break the chain?" it asked.
"I don't know yet," she replied. "But I need to understand what happened. What we were. What we lost."
The voice chuckled. "Then open your eyes."
A vision slammed into her—an old cathedral drenched in moonlight. Hooded figures. A girl on the altar. Power flooding like a river through her veins.
The girl was her.
Or someone who looked just like her.
Dawn came with silver rain.
Kael, Elyra, and Vespera stood together once more, before a council of uneasy allies. Maps sprawled across the table. New strategies, new risks.
"The Pale Flame moves toward Lorithal," one scout reported. "They've taken the outer wards."
"Then we meet them there," Kael said.
Elyra nodded. "We stop them. Or we die trying."
Vespera looked at the map. Her hands trembled.
No one noticed the faint glow at her throat—the locket still pulsing like a heartbeat.
They didn't see the tear slip down her cheek.
They didn't hear the voice, still whispering.
"You will remember what you were. And you will choose what you become."