Ash drifted like snow across the courtyard of Ravenhold, soft and deceiving. It covered blood, broken banners, and the shattered remnants of what once was pride. The main gate hung crooked on a single hinge, groaning with every gust of wind that whispered through the dead towers. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled a cracked, off-pitch chime. It did not ring for victory. It rang for reckoning.
Seraphina stood in the heart of the destruction, her armor scorched, dented, and lined with soot. Her braid had come undone, a mess of curls clinging to her sweat-slicked cheeks. Blood trickled down one arm, not from a wound she could feel, but from one too deep to name. She held her sword in one hand, but it hung low, nearly dragging the ground.
Around her, silence. No cheers. No cries. Only the crackle of dying flames.
Mira emerged from the smoke first, limping, her shield arm hanging uselessly. "We held it," she said, voice raw.
"Barely," Seraphina replied, though there was no relief in her tone.
The sky above boiled with stormclouds, swirling black and blue with veins of crimson lightning—signs of something unnatural still brewing beyond the veil. Seraphina could feel it, even with the bond gone. Magic clung to the bones of this place, restless, unsatisfied.
"Where is he?" Mira asked after a beat, eyes scanning the rubble. She didn't have to say the name.
Seraphina didn't answer.
Because she didn't know.
Elsewhere – Valen's POV
Valen knelt at the mouth of the ancient crypt, his blade stuck upright in the earth beside him. The Forgotten Vale had offered no sanctuary—only memories wrapped in ghosts. And now the dead wanted payment.
His breathing was labored, but not from exhaustion. From choice.
Behind him, the spirit of the Nightborn queen hovered like smoke, her crown of dying stars flickering faintly above her head. "You severed what was sacred," she whispered. "You stole from destiny."
Valen didn't flinch. "I gave her a chance."
"You gave her a curse."
He didn't argue. He just rose slowly, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. His hand trembled slightly—from pain or rage, it was impossible to tell.
"And now what?" the queen asked. "You wander these woods until your bones rot, a king of regrets?"
Valen turned to face her, eyes shadowed beneath the hood. "No. I'm going back."
The queen's laugh was wind through broken leaves. "She will not welcome you."
"I don't need her to. I only need her to live."
Back at Ravenhold
Seraphina paced the scorched war chamber, eyes darting between bloodied maps and prophecy scrolls as Mira stitched her arm silently in the corner. Every sound seemed louder now—the scrape of steel on stone, the ragged breathing of survivors, the flutter of burnt parchment. The weight of command pressed down heavier than any crown ever could.
"The barrier is thinning," Mira said. "Whatever the High Priestess summoned in the east... it's not just a creature. It's a rift."
Seraphina's hands clenched at her sides. "Then we close it."
"With what army?" Mira asked, exasperated.
"With me," came a voice from the shadows.
The chamber went still.
Valen stepped into the torchlight, soaked from rain and travel, a thin trail of blood winding down his cheek. He looked older somehow. Not in age, but in wear.
Mira stood first, sword half-raised. "You have no right—"
"Let him speak," Seraphina interrupted.
Valen met her eyes. The bond between them remained broken, and yet... she felt something stir. Like a heartbeat beneath ash.
"I found a way," he said quietly. "To stop her. But we need to go through the Mirror Gate."
Mira's eyes widened. "That's suicide. No one comes back through the Mirror Gate."
"Then it's a good thing we stopped being ordinary people a long time ago," Seraphina replied, stepping toward him.
Valen didn't reach for her. Didn't ask forgiveness. Only offered truth.
"It will cost us everything."
"Then it will be worth it."