It took three days for the light to fade.
Not the sun — but the residue of power that had poured from Liora's soul when she wielded the Shard to seal the Unwritten once again. The canyon of the Hollowspire was silent now, the roots withdrawn, the cradle cracked and empty.
But the echo of that choice — of choosing both daughters, both paths, both truths — still hummed in the bones of the world.
Liora stood at the edge of the canyon, the wind stirring her cloak. Her hair, once entirely black, now shimmered at the edges with streaks of starlight and silver. Her eyes held a thousand truths and one steady flame: love.
Behind her, the twins sat in the grass. Still two. Still separate.
But changed.
They were not perfect opposites anymore. That fragile moment in the void had merged pieces of their souls — not into one being, but into sisters who shared a single harmony. The light-born now understood shadow; the dark-born, warmth.
And they both understood choice.
Vaerion stood beside Liora, watching the girls with quiet awe.
"She rewrote the seal," he murmured. "Without destroying anything. Not even him."
Liora nodded. "I couldn't destroy him. He's not just a threat — he's a symptom. Of every lie the gods told. Of every truth they buried. We created him when we started pretending the world could be clean."
"Do you think he's gone?"
Liora looked down into the Hollowspire.
"No," she said. "But he's… quieter now."
Vaerion reached for her hand.
She took it.
For a moment, they stood in silence — not heavy, not ominous. Just stillness. The kind of silence that follows a storm.
The kind that feels like a beginning.
That night, the camp was alive with firelight.
For the first time in what felt like years, laughter rose among the soulbound and the broken armies that had once warred with each other. Dissonant angels sang old songs in imperfect harmony. Dwarves and elves, once splintered, shared stories by flame. Even Silra the Pale, Liora's lich-queen general, allowed herself to dissolve into her mist form and drift lazily over a game of spectral dice.
Kelvir approached Liora at the edge of camp, where she sat with her daughters watching stars realign.
"The Guardian sent word," he said.
Liora turned. "I didn't know he still walked."
"He doesn't. He waits. He said if you truly balanced the paradox, the Shard wouldn't need a bearer anymore. And yet…"
Kelvir looked at her chest, where the soft glow of the Shard still pulsed just beneath her skin.
"He said it's not just a weapon now. It's… a seed."
Liora blinked.
And understood.
The Shard had always been a piece of the origin — a relic of the first truth.
Now, it was becoming something new.
A promise.
That night, Liora dreamed.
Not of war. Not of fire. But of a table.
A long one.
Her daughters at either end — both older now, speaking, debating, smiling.
Vaerion beside her, weathered but proud.
Friends lost and found sharing meals.
And around them — life.
Rebuilt. Reclaimed.
Real.
She awoke with tears on her cheeks.
And for once, they weren't born from pain.
But peace is a fragile thing.
Especially in a world that had forgotten how to carry it.
While the camp celebrated, far across the ocean, in the ruined city of Vass-Karuun, where the gods had once held their most forbidden vaults, something stirred.
A hand pushed through the blackened marble of the Temple of Bound Wills.
Fingers, long and spindled, clawed free of centuries of stone and bone.
And then another.
And then eyes.
Not two.
But seven.
Each one blinking in a different direction.
Not the Unwritten.
Not yet.
But another.
A Scion.
Birthed from one of the Unwritten's scattered echoes.
It rose without breath, without sound.
And began to walk.
Back at camp, the twins approached Liora quietly just before dawn.
The light-born, now more curious than shy, leaned into her mother's side.
"Are we safe now?" she asked.
Liora hesitated.
"I think we're closer to safe," she said. "But there will always be things that want to twist what we love."
The dark-born twin sat down, watching her sister's face with a gentleness that hadn't been there before.
"You changed me," she said softly.
"No," Liora replied. "You chose to grow."
The girl blinked, then looked away.
"I remember what he showed me," she said. "The cradle. The throne of ash. A version of me who burned everything down."
"And?"
"I don't want to be her."
Liora smiled faintly.
"Then you won't."
As morning broke, Liora summoned her council.
Kelvir. Veyron. Silra. Vaerion. Even a representative of the Dissonant angels.
They gathered at the center of camp, where the grass had started to regrow.
"I don't want to rule," Liora said. "But I know the world will come looking for one."
Kelvir raised an eyebrow. "You're not stepping down?"
"No," she said. "But I'm not building an empire either. I'm planting something different."
She placed a seed — glowing faintly with the Shard's light — into the earth.
"This," she said, "is a place where both my daughters will grow. Where no god will claim worship, and no soul will be bound by law."
Veyron crossed his arms. "You'll be challenged."
"I know."
"They'll come for you."
"I hope they do," she said. "Because now… I'm ready."