Arisven trembled.
The rose-wrought halls, once silent and seductive, now pulsed with the weight of impending ruin. The petals that had once perfumed the air now reeked of rot and burning blood.
At her signal, from cracked marble floors, vines burst forth like living serpents, their thorns dripping venom. Velastra did not hesitate. With each measured swing, her blade seared pale flames across creeping limbs; where steel met green, the vines curled, hissed, and died.
"You will not take him!" the mistress screamed, voice pitched with fury.
"You never had him," Velastra replied, voice low as stormclouds.
A wall of brambles, taller than colonnades, lunged. Velastra met it head-on. Her cloak trailed like smoke, her strikes precise and merciless. The mistress faltered, anger twisting her features.
"Woman, surrender."
Instead, Velastra drove her sword into the cracked floor. The earth cracked in answer. Ancient glyphs flared around her in a ring of fire—Oathfire—her flame, now unleashed. The brambles recoiled, shriveling in the fierce heat.
Arisven groaned.
"You would burn your mother's legacy?" the mistress gasped, petals falling like cursed rain.
Velastra's eyes shifted to a pale, void-gray—loss and wrath colliding in their depths. Her voice, ragged and cold, carried across the ruin, "I will end this den of poison. I will salt the soil of every vine that ever touched him."
The rose mistress screamed, sending thorned spears through the air.
Velastra didn't flinch.
The Oathflame answered her call. Fire burst from the water, and Arisven began to burn.
Then—
"Your Highness—enough!"
Cael's voice rang out, raw and desperate. He tore from Orion's grip, running into the blaze, heedless of the embers biting into his skin.
She turned to him, eyes glowing like stormlight.
He saw it—not fury, not power. But someone.
"Please," he said, stumbling toward her. "You're not her anymore," he whispered.
She froze.
The flames faltered.
Cael burst through the haze, eyes blazing with fear. He crossed the burning floor in desperate strides and wrapped his arms around her. At his touch, the flames sputtered; the Oathfire cooled. Gray melted back to brown in her eyes. The vines collapsed into ash.
Her breath caught.
A new voice cut through the smoke,
"Enough."
Moonlight shivered through Arisven's shattered dome, bathing petals blackened by rot and blood in a cold, silver light. The rose-wrought halls trembled as Velastra advanced, her sword—a blade of silver flame—held fast in her hand.
At her signal, the rose mistress rose, slender fingers weaving through the air. From cracked marble floors, vines burst forth like living serpents, their thorns dripping venom. Velastra did not hesitate. With each measured swing, her blade seared pale flames across creeping limbs; where steel met green, the vines curled, hissed, and died.
"You will not take him!" the mistress screamed, voice pitched with fury.
"You never had him," Velastra replied, voice low as stormclouds.
A wall of brambles, taller than colonnades, lunged. Velastra met it head-on: her cloak trailed like smoke, her strikes precise and merciless. The mistress faltered, anger twisting her features.
"Woman, surrender."
Instead, Velastra drove her sword into the cracked floor. The earth cracked in answer. Ancient glyphs flared around her in a ring of fire—Oathfire—long sealed by divine will, now unleashed. The brambles recoiled, shriveling in the fierce heat.
Arisven groaned. The ceiling split; fractured moonlight shattered across rising steam—water made of memory itself, swirling upward in ghostly plumes.
"You would burn my mother's legacy?" the mistress gasped, petals falling like cursed rain.
Velastra's eyes shifted to a pale, void-gray—loss and wrath colliding in their depths. Her voice, ragged and cold, carried across the ruin:
"I will end this den of poison. I will salt the earth where ever these vines grow."
With a final, anguished cry, the mistress hurled thorned spears. Velastra did not flinch. The water at her feet ignited, and the halls erupted in flame.
Then a voice cut through the chaos, "Your Highness—enough!"
Cael burst through the haze, eyes blazing with fear. He crossed the burning floor in desperate strides and wrapped his arms around her. At his touch, the flames sputtered; the Oathfire cooled. Gray melted back to brown in her eyes. The vines collapsed into ash.
Silence fell.
"Enough," said a new voice—steady, absolute.
King Vorelin emerged from the archway, sea-silk robes trailing like tide. His pale gaze swept the ruin, and at a word, the rose mistress collapsed to her knees.
"Your Majesty—" she stammered.
"Lira," the king said, "your task was not to ignite war." With a soft gesture, he erased her magic; petals and thorns faded into dust.
Velastra stood firm and bowed. Her blade was dark now, but she did not lower it. The king approached, eyes never leaving her.
"You are truly my heir," he observed quietly. "Yet I see your flame has changed."
She bowed. "If that displeases you, I accept your judgment."
He smiled—a curve of storm-steel. "It amuses me. You may take him back."
Cael brushed ash from her cheek. "You nearly destroyed it all," he murmured.
She met his gaze, fierce and soft all at once. "I can go further."
He searched her eyes—dark, steady, unbroken—and whispered, "Don't."
Velastra leaned into him, her voice hoarse with a vow and warning.
"Then don't dare choose another over me."
---
The skies over Arisven had quieted, but the ground still carried the scent of burned roses and memory.
Velastra led the way across the crystalline bridge, her cloak tattered at the hem, trailing soft ashes with each step. Orion followed close beside her, eyes flicking to the dark horizon as if expecting trouble to rise again. Behind them, Cael moved in silence, his shoulders tight, his gaze distant.
They should have felt relief—Arisven's rose mistress was vanquished, the king remained behind to heal the island's wounds, and the deadly vines could no longer follow them. Yet with every mile they put between themselves and that place, Velastra sensed Cael's spirit pulling back, as if something still held him there.
She halted without warning. The silver glow of the bridge cast her features into stark relief as she turned to him.
"Cael," she said softly, "your steps have grown heavy."
Orion paused, his brow knitting in concern, but he said nothing. The sea's distant roar filled the hush between them.
Cael's breath came in ragged bursts. He clenched and unclenched his fists before he finally spoke, voice hollow.
"I must go back."
Velastra felt the word like a blade in her chest. "No," she answered too quickly, the echo of past cruelties sharpening her tone.
He took a tentative step toward the violet-lit edge of Arisven, as if its memory still called him.
"I left something behind," he confessed, shame flickering across his face. "Someone."
Velastra's heart clenched. "You owe her nothing," she said, voice steady. "She hurt you."
"But I need to face her," he whispered. "To make sure she never has power over me again."
Orion's hand drifted to the hilt at his side, but he stood back, giving them room. Velastra drew near, studying Cael's pale face in the moonlight. She saw in him a soul bent on atonement, a need she could neither deny nor ignore.
"You swore yourself to me," she reminded him, quiet strength in every word.
"I still do," he said.
"And yet you would walk away?"
"Only to come back right," he replied.
Her breath caught. She reached out, fingertips brushing his temples.
"You cannot leave," she said, voice firm yet gentle. "Not even for a day."
His lips trembled. "But—"
Before he could speak further, a subtle force snared him. He staggered backward as a familiar silver light coiled beneath his skin—the Oath-Arcana, binding him to her once more. Radiant chains of moonlight wrapped his wrists and chest, halting his retreat.
"Velastra," he gasped, eyes wide.
She stood a few paces away, one hand raised, fingers still glowing with that sacred seal.
Orion recognized the surge of power and whispered, "You bind him again?"
"I do," she replied calmly, "because he is mine to protect."
Cael struggled, chest heaving. "This isn't protection—it's control."
"No," she said softly, "this is anchor."
The chains pulsed once, then tugged him forward. He moved toward her, not with fear, but with a weary acceptance, until he stood before her.
Behind them, the little skiff waited—its dark wood etched with ancient runes that promised warmth and rest to those who could not sleep, voyages that could never end. Velastra descended the steps to its platform with effortless grace. The chains drew Cael after her; she caught his arm to steady him.
"No more running," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear.
He searched her eyes, pain and wonder mingling in his expression. "You bind me to a choice I didn't make."
Her voice was gentle as dawn. "You made it the moment you bled for me."
He closed his eyes. Then, without resisting, he stepped into the skiff. The chains vanished, leaving a remnant of pain, reminding him that he cannot escape.
Orion slipped aboard, seating himself at the helm. The skiff rose smoothly on the dark waters, and Arisven's misty silhouette receded into the night.
Ahead, the stars awaited—and in the hush between wave and sky, they sail.