The dawn broke like a bruise—violet, swollen, aching across the sky.
Ravenhold's walls stood, but the soul of the fortress groaned. Smoldering embers clung to blackened stone. The banners that once flew proud and red now hung in tatters, each one soaked in ash and dried blood.
Seraphina walked alone through the inner courtyard, where puddles glistened with oil and water, reflecting fragments of the broken sky. Her boots made no sound. Not anymore. Not when the air held its breath around her.
Mira stood at the gate, sword sheathed but fingers tight around the hilt. She watched her queen—the girl who had become fire—and wondered if this was the moment the flames finally devoured her.
"You didn't sleep," Mira said softly.
Seraphina didn't respond at first. She paused beside the stone well and glanced down. The water was black. Still. Like a mirror for a soul she no longer recognized.
"The dead don't sleep," Seraphina said, voice quiet but edged like obsidian. "And we left pieces of ourselves on that battlefield."
Mira stepped forward. "You made your choice. War instead of him."
"No," Seraphina said, lifting her gaze. "I chose both. I chose to be more than anyone gave me permission to be."
The words didn't echo. They burned.
---
**Valen**
Valen stood on the edge of the obsidian coast, where the sea foamed with fury and salt. The wind tore at his cloak, whipping strands of hair across his face like blades. The creature from the Forgotten Vale was gone—for now—but its words clung to him like curses inked beneath the skin.
"You gave up the girl. Now give up the rest."
What more was there to give?
The stars refused to shine that night. Perhaps they knew what came next.
He knelt, fingers pressed into the cold black sand, and drew the old sigil. Not of his house. Not of his bloodline. But of something older, deeper.
A buried flame.
A forgotten pact.
The magic answered with a hiss. Not light. Not dark. Something in between.
He was not done. Not yet.
---
**Ravenhold – War Room**
The council had gathered. Such as it was.
Mira. Commander Alric. Two wounded generals and a blood-soaked mage. All eyes turned to Seraphina.
"We march in three days," she said. "North. Through the Vale. Into the ice."
"It's suicide," Alric said flatly. "The enemy holds the Frost Gate. We don't even know if—"
"They expect us to hesitate," Seraphina cut in. "Which is exactly why we won't."
Mira watched her closely. There was no tremble. No fear. Only fury refined into strategy.
"If Valen were here—"
Seraphina's eyes flashed. "He's not. I am."
---
**Valen**
He climbed the cliffs of the Edgespire alone, bleeding from a wound that refused to close. He didn't remember when he'd been struck. Only that the pain was real. That it grounded him.
And in the wind, a voice whispered.
Her name.
He stood at the summit, staring into the storm that crowned the mountain like a god's wrath.
"You said goodbye," he whispered into the thunder. "But I never did."
His hand closed around the hilt of the blade.
Time to return.
---