The halls of Aetherhold were filled with the whispers of prophecy.
Since Selena's victory in the Frost Duel, the merged crown of fire and ice had become a beacon across the fractured kingdoms. But peace, she knew, was a breath between storms—and this breath was already thinning.
The child slept beside her, wrapped in divine silk and resting on a bed of woven frostlight. He no longer cried in fear but in memory. Each tear shimmered with visions—forgotten timelines, dying gods, and cities swallowed by flame.
Selena stood in silence, staring at the frozen ceiling of the sanctum chamber. The stars painted above mirrored none from their current sky—they were older, stranger. Perhaps the constellations of the first gods.
Dante entered quietly, his presence a steady heat at her back. His flame had dimmed lately—not in weakness, but in restraint. The fire within him listened now, as if the child's heartbeat echoed through their blood.
"You haven't slept," he said.
