In The weeks that followed the sealing of the Harrow, the world stirred as if waking from a fevered dream. The skies slowly cleared, letting starlight touch the earth again. Trees that had withered began to bud. Rivers long diverted returned to their courses. A quiet calm fell across the land—not the hush before a storm, but the stillness of recovery.
Yet not all was healed.
Ashen lay in the Hall of Renewal beneath the ruins of Elenor's High Temple, his body still and silent, as if the act of sealing the Harrow had burned through the last of his strength. The ember within his chest glowed faintly, steady, like a heartbeat waiting for the world to catch up.
Caelara sat at his side, her hand on his, refusing to leave him. Her visions had not returned since the monolith shattered, and with the Seers scattered or slain during the storm's final assault, she was the last Oracle now—title, burden, and all.
But even without her Sight, she still believed.
On the fourteenth day, as the wind shifted and carried the scent of green things, Ashen stirred.
His eyes fluttered open—no longer blazing or golden, but calm, clear, and deeply human.
"Did we win?" he asked, voice raw.
Caelara laughed, then wept. "We lived. That's more than the prophecies promised."
He sat up slowly, glancing at his hands. "I can still feel it. The Harrow. But it's quiet now. Not gone, just… sleeping."
"You've become its vessel. Fully. And you chose not to be ruled by it."
Ashen looked at her. "But at what cost to you?"
She shook her head. "I chose to believe in you. I gave up my Sight, yes. But not my hope. And that, I think, is more powerful than prophecy."
News of their victory spread slowly, carried by song and whispers. The Accord had shattered again in the battle, but its pieces remained—enough to rebuild. Refugees returned home. The last surviving Seers, inspired by Caelara's example, vowed to protect not fate, but choice.
A new age dawned—not an age of heroes or seers or kings, but of witnesses. People who had seen the end come and turned it away. Who now had to build something better in the ashes.
Ashen and Caelara left the ruins behind, traveling the scarred lands. Where the Harrow's touch remained, Ashen soothed it. Where prophecy failed, Caelara listened—not to fate, but to people.
They became legends, yes—but quiet ones. Not carved in stone, but carried in memory.
Years passed.
One night, as the stars burned bright and the wind carried the songs of children born under free skies, Caelara stood atop a hill overlooking the new city of Elenor—smaller than before, but alive.
Ashen joined her, older now, but still bearing the ember's glow beneath his robes.
"Do you ever wonder," he asked, "what the old Oracles would say about us?"
She smiled. "They'd say we broke the future."
"Maybe. Or maybe we gave it back to the people."
They stood in silence, and for the first time in a long while, there was no fear behind it.
Caelara reached for his hand.
"Whatever comes next," she said, "we'll face it together."
Above them, a star flared bright—then another. And in the hush between breaths, the world whispered not in prophecy, but in peace.
The Last Oracle had spoken.
And her final vision was a future unwritten.
THE END