The night in Ravenhold was so still it felt like the entire world was holding its breath. The ruined castle walls exhaled faint drafts of cold air, a ghost's sigh, carrying the scent of scorched stone and blood.
Seraphina stood on a balcony overlooking the silent courtyard, her cloak rippling behind her like the wings of a dark seraph. The moon, vast and bone-pale, was tangled in storm clouds that refused to break. Even the stars seemed afraid to shine upon what she was about to do.
Below, the remains of her soldiers shuffled like broken marionettes. Bandaged, weary, too worn to lift their heads — and yet, their loyalty burned, steady and unbowed.
Seraphina could taste their pain. Feel it in the marrow of her bones.
No illusions left.
No illusions needed.
Mira appeared behind her, stepping softly across the scorched floor. Her voice was hoarse, but unyielding. "You sent word for me?"
Seraphina did not turn. "I did."
The silence between them throbbed. Mira shifted, boots scuffing against broken tiles, waiting for orders.
Finally Seraphina spoke, quiet as the first tremor before an earthquake. "Tomorrow, we march."
Mira blinked. "My lady, the men—"
"They will stand," Seraphina cut in, eyes still on the courtyard. "Or they will fall. Either way, we move. We cannot let the Nightborn gather their strength again. We strike at dawn."
The steel in her voice left no room for argument. Mira only nodded, swallowing back exhaustion. "Yes, my lady."
When Mira had left, Seraphina let her shoulders slump for a single heartbeat. Just one.
Her gaze found the broken gates where so many had died, where her own magic had spiraled out of control, where love had turned to ashes. She could almost see Valen in the gloom, as though he lingered there, a phantom woven from regret.
I hope you are safe, Valen, she thought, though bitterness bit at her tongue.
Safe. Far away. Unreachable.
Her heart ached, but her resolve did not.
She would end this.
She would break the Nightborn, even if it meant breaking herself.
---
Meanwhile — Valen's POV
Storm winds howled across the cliffs, battering Valen as he trudged toward a half-ruined tower at the sea's edge. Its spires were crowned with seabird nests and salt-eaten stone, the place half-forgotten by every map.
A lone lantern burned there, small as a candle's wish in the night.
Valen kicked open the warped door. Inside, the air was thick with brine and mildew. The old tower stank of fish, seaweed, and memories of better days.
He dropped his sword on a table and sat hard on a splintering stool.
His mind was a battlefield.
Every breath was a struggle.
He could feel her in every heartbeat — even with the bond severed, her magic had left a stain on his soul, a ghost too deep to scrape away.
Part of him wanted to run back to her.
Another part feared he'd only destroy her again.
His fingers curled into fists.
He could not sit here rotting while she faced the Nightborn alone.
He stood so fast the stool clattered to the ground. Gathering his cloak, he tied it at his shoulders, grabbed his blade, and stepped back into the teeth of the wind.
North.
He would ride north, to Ravenhold.
To her.
If the world wanted to tear itself apart, fine. He'd stand with Seraphina at the edge of its ruin.
---