Ravenhold was ready to burst at the seams.
At dawn, the castle's ruined halls echoed with the scrape of swords against whetstones, the clatter of broken shields being reforged, the bark of captains rallying their ragged ranks. The air smelled of wet earth, steel, and desperate hope.
Seraphina moved through the halls like a ghost queen, her long cloak stirring the dust, her pale face a mask of cold determination. There was a savage grace about her, a calm forged from the kind of heartbreak that turned love into armor.
When she stepped onto the inner battlements, soldiers straightened their spines. Their eyes held exhaustion, yes — but also fire. They would follow her into oblivion if she asked.
And she would.
Below, the city gates lay wide open, a statement to the Nightborn that there would be no retreat, no sanctuary. Only blood. Only finality.
She paused, listening to the wind.
In its ragged hush, she imagined she heard Valen's voice.
Fight for me.
She shook it away.
Valen had chosen to leave.
She would not break for him now.
But in the marrow of her bones, she still ached for him — that impossible, infuriating, intoxicating man.
---
Far beyond the gates, the Nightborn legions gathered like a bruised storm on the horizon. Their armor, slick as oil, gleamed in the dawn. Their banners rippled, each one a ragged icon of horror.
Seraphina's generals gathered around her.
Mira was first to speak. "We cannot hold them for long, my lady. We're too few."
Seraphina nodded. "We do not hold. We break their line. One stroke. One chance."
Mira's jaw tightened. "And if we fail?"
Seraphina looked her dead in the eyes. "Then we burn with glory."
The cold truth of it settled into their hearts, grim but steadying. Better to die as lions than as hunted sheep.
She turned back toward the approaching tide of darkness.
Let them come.
---
Meanwhile — Valen's POV
Valen's horse pounded through fields gone black with frost, each hoofbeat jarring through his bones. Every league he crossed seemed to burn away the doubts. The wind whipped his cloak behind him, the tang of salt and ice in the air.
He was going back.
No more running.
No more pretending he could stand by while she bore this alone.
He could see Ravenhold rising from the morning haze, scarred but defiant. The sight nearly stole the breath from his lungs.
He remembered every moment inside those walls. The way Seraphina had smiled when she trusted him. The way she had screamed when he betrayed her.
That was done.
He would fix it.
Or die trying.
---
As Seraphina stood watching the Nightborn begin their final march, a shout rose from behind her.
She turned.
A lone rider was pounding across the drawbridge, cloak snapping like a battle flag, sword gleaming at his side.
Her heart stuttered.
Valen.
Mira drew her blade. "Shall I stop him?"
Seraphina's voice was barely a whisper. "No."
Valen reined in hard, sliding from the saddle, his boots striking the stone with a solid, familiar thud.
Their eyes locked.
He looked older, harder, as if he had walked through every shadow to get here.
Seraphina stepped forward, her face unreadable.
"Why?" she asked, voice trembling in that one forbidden place where only he could touch her. "Why now?"
Valen swallowed, eyes burning like coals. "Because I'd rather stand at your side in hell than survive without you."
A beat of silence.
Then the air itself seemed to shiver with a promise.
Seraphina reached for his hand, fingers brushing against his, hesitant but hungry.
He took it.
And the world roared.
---