The moon bled red.
Not the warm blush of dusk, nor the eerie pale of winter light. This was deeper—like a wound in the sky that refused to close. It bled onto the mountains, the walls of Ravenhold, and onto Seraphina's upturned face. Every stone, every shadow, wore the stain of something ancient awakened.
She stood at the altar of the Raven Chapel, where the old gods had once whispered to warriors before war. The chapel was no longer sacred. The stained glass had shattered ages ago, and the altar bled ivy and rot. And yet, tonight, it thrummed with power.
Behind her, the priests of the old order watched in silence, their robes the color of mourning, their faces masked by the hoods of forgotten rites. Raven feathers were scattered on the floor like black snow. The air was heavy with incense, clove and smoke and blood.
Mira stood to her left, armored not for battle but for something more primal. Her eyes met Seraphina's, and for once, they held no warning, no defiance. Only belief.
"Are you sure?" Mira's voice was a whisper, but in the hollow chamber, it rang like a bell.
Seraphina nodded. "I will not beg fate to favor me. I will command it."
She stepped forward and knelt before the altar, palms bare and open. The priest—a woman older than stone and thinner than death—stepped forward, her voice brittle with age but ringing with ritual.
"By blood, by oath, by flame—you offer your soul for a power unbound. Do you understand the cost?"
"I do."
The priest cut a small crescent into Seraphina's palm. Crimson welled, slow and shimmering, like the moon above. The blood dripped onto the altar, hissing where it landed. Symbols long buried beneath stone flared to life, casting the room in violet and gold.
"Then rise, Seraphina Vale, Bound Queen of the Broken Flame."
The wind howled through the broken glass of the chapel. Power coursed through her like wildfire—searing, divine, ancient. The curse had marked her. This oath would weaponize it.
She rose slowly. No longer trembling. No longer unsure.
Outside the chapel, a rider galloped toward Ravenhold, bearing a broken banner and news that would end peace.
---
**Valen's POV**
The stars were wrong.
That was the first thing he noticed as he stood at the edge of the Wyrmgate.
The night sky above the ruined valley was smeared with constellations that did not belong to this world. Dragons curled around moons that had no name. Stars blinked in unfamiliar patterns—a map for a world undone.
Valen held the parchment in his gloved hand. The map was shaking, but not from wind. It pulsed with warning.
Beside him, the creature that had once been a man shifted its wings.
"You should not be here, Nightborn."
"I gave up my bond. I severed her. That should've bought me silence."
"It bought you exile," the creature hissed, its voice like wind scraping bone. "But now you ask for fire."
Valen looked toward the great circle of the Wyrmgate—a monolith etched in blood runes and sealed with soul-binding sigils. This was the place the ancient kings came to make war against gods. The place where flame answered to flesh.
"I don't want fire," Valen said. "I want justice."
The creature's eyes narrowed, twin voids in a skull too old for names. "Then bleed."
Valen drew the blade from his back and slit his palm clean across. Blood spilled onto the earth and steamed against stone. The Wyrmgate rumbled.
---
**Back at Ravenhold**
The rider arrived at dawn. His horse collapsed before the gates, foam and fire at its mouth.
Seraphina met him in the courtyard, still wearing the blood-marked robes of the rite. Her eyes were darker now. Deeper.
The rider fell to his knees. "The Vale has fallen. The eastern outposts are gone. There is no border. Only flame."
Seraphina looked to the horizon, where the sky had begun to lighten.
But it was not the sun that rose.
It was smoke.
---