The sky above the Vale of Broken Wings was no longer dark—it bled.
Crimson streaks burned across the horizon as morning clawed its way through smoke and ash. Where once there had been trees, now there were scorched skeletons. And amidst the ruins, the dead whispered. Their voices curled between branches and drifted over the bloodied earth like mist.
Seraphina stood among the wreckage.
Her boots crushed blackened petals, her armor was stained with soot and memory. Ravenhold's banners no longer flew—they burned, low and steady, as if even the fabric remembered what had been done. Her sword—her mother's blade—hung loose in her grip, the edge dulled from too many bodies.
The battle had ended.
But she had not.
Behind her, the last of their soldiers gathered in solemn silence, tending to wounds and burying the fallen. Mira moved through the camp like a revenant—her right arm bandaged, her eyes unreadable.
Seraphina hadn't spoken since the final blow. Not after the High Inquisitor's death. Not after the prophecy's last line had burned itself into her skin.
"She who bears the mark of stars shall choose which world must die."
It hadn't felt like a choice.
It felt like bleeding.
Valen – Elsewhere
Valen awoke in a bed not meant for him.
Feathers. Silk. Candlelight. A room untouched by war, tucked in the heart of a monastery carved into the cliffs of Eltherin. But no bells rang. No prayers echoed.
Only one voice spoke.
"You burned it all, didn't you?"
The woman in white sat by his bedside. Pale as frost, eyes like moons, she was not quite human. Not anymore.
"I broke the bond," he rasped.
She tilted her head. "And in doing so, forged another."
He looked down at his chest. A mark had bloomed there—a crimson sunburst with a crescent shadow etched into its core.
Not hers.
Something older.
"You've been claimed, Valen," she said softly. "The gods have chosen their retribution. You are the reckoning now. And she… she is the flame."
He closed his eyes.
Even severed, they had not escaped fate.
Back in the Vale – Seraphina's POV
At dusk, she found the well.
An ancient one, overgrown with vine and surrounded by shattered angel statues. It was said the first rulers of the realm once made offerings here—to bind themselves to the realm, to pledge their magic to its survival.
She knelt.
No words. No rituals.
Just blood.
She cut her palm and let it fall into the depths.
A promise.
A warning.
And when the wind shifted, she felt it again—faint, like an echo through mountains.
His heartbeat.
Still there.
Still tethered.
"Coward," she whispered. "You thought breaking it would save me."
But she understood now. The bond was never about love. Or power.
It was a weapon.
And it belonged to both of them.
Mira found her at nightfall, sword sheathed, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
"You're not done, are you?" Mira asked quietly.
Seraphina stood.
"No. Now we begin again."
Far North – Valen's POV
He descended the last stair into the Library of Lost Kings, deeper than any map could chart. The air was thin. Ancient magic thrummed along the stones.
He had come looking for the names.
Not of enemies.
Of gods.
Because the war wasn't over.
It was just waking up.
And the only way to stop it… was to become something greater than prophecy.
Something worse than fate.