Ravenhold's skies wept blood-red light as dawn bled slowly across the horizon. The ruins of the battlements loomed jagged against the fire-washed sky, like broken teeth from a long-dead god. A bitter wind swept over the scorched earth, carrying with it ash, cinders, and the scent of vengeance.
Seraphina stood at the edge of the eastern tower, her silhouette framed by the rising sun. Her armor was dented, darkened with soot and blood—hers and others'. Her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the stone railing, nails biting into the cold. Her breath left her in slow, steady clouds, though the air burned with anticipation.
Behind her, the war camp was stirring. Steel clashed as soldiers armed themselves, grizzled commanders barked final orders, and war banners—some new, some torn and stitched with desperate faith—whipped violently in the wind. The people of Ravenhold had prepared themselves for slaughter.
But Seraphina was preparing for retribution.
Her hair, loose and singed at the ends, streamed behind her like a battle flag. The marks etched along her skin—the remnants of prophecy and power—glowed faintly now, not with suffering, but purpose. She could feel the ancient fire beneath her ribs, a storm begging to be loosed. No more doubt. No more waiting. No more looking back.
Mira appeared in the doorway behind her, cloak fluttering.
"They're ready," Mira said quietly. "They await your signal."
Seraphina didn't move. "And Valen?"
Mira hesitated. "Still no word."
For a moment, the silence between them stretched long, carved of uncertainty and grief. Then Seraphina exhaled.
"If he returns, he returns. But I'm not waiting for anyone to fight my war."
She turned, and Mira caught the full force of her gaze—obsidian and flame, grief-worn but unshaken.
"Tell them to light the signal fires," Seraphina said. "The reckoning begins now."
Meanwhile – Valen's POV
Valen moved like a ghost through the ruins of the Forgotten Vale. The ground beneath his feet cracked with each step, scorched and whispering with forgotten curses. He'd made a bargain with something ancient—older than the gods that once ruled the sky—and now the price of it gnawed at his very soul.
His blade was sheathed in a flame that didn't burn, a flickering blue fire gifted by the Starborne creature who had demanded a piece of his memory in return. He no longer remembered the color of his mother's eyes.
But he remembered Seraphina.
The bond was gone, yes. Severed by his hand, his blood, his choice. But she lingered in his thoughts like smoke after wildfire—inescapable. He could almost hear her voice when the wind turned.
And now he marched to war.
Not to win her back.
But to destroy the thing that had cursed them both.
Back at Ravenhold – War Council
The war table groaned beneath the weight of blades, blood-marked scrolls, and a single obsidian crown. Seraphina stood before it as the final plans were laid bare. To the east, the loyalist army waited beneath the ruined hills. To the west, the Crimson Hollow's forces gathered like flies to a corpse. And above them all, the sky churned, unsure of which side to favor.
A scout burst through the doors, panting, armor scorched at the edges. "They've begun their advance!"
Mira drew her blade without hesitation. "So do we."
Seraphina lifted the crown—the one forged not for royalty, but for ruin. The cursed diadem pulsed once in her palm.
She did not wear it.
She threw it into the fire.
And turned to lead her army.
Hours Later – The Battlefield
The clash of armies was thunder.
Ravenhold's defenders poured from the gates like a tide of steel and fury. War cries rent the air. Magic lit the field in bursts of lightning and flame. Crimson Hollow's beasts—twisted, reanimated, stitched from nightmare—met them with unholy hunger.
In the midst of it, Seraphina fought like myth.
Each strike was clean, calculated, precise. Her blade danced with vengeance, her eyes fixed on the enemy commander—a traitorous High Warden named Caelric, who once swore to protect her family.
They met beneath the crumbling remains of an old watchtower, swords clashing like the echo of fallen stars.
"You wear your father's defiance like a cloak," Caelric sneered. "It won't save you."
"No," Seraphina answered. "But it will bury you."
She struck once—twice—three times, and Caelric fell.
Above her, a horn sounded.
Reinforcements.
But not hers.
Valen rode from the eastern ridge, his cloak a banner of ash, his sword burning with blue fire.
Behind him, a host of warriors emerged—neither Ravenhold nor Crimson Hollow—but something older, stranger, formed of shadow and starlight. The bargain he'd made had opened a gate.
Together, they turned the tide.