Dawn broke in muted gold across the war-torn horizon. The Citadel, once the crown of the Northern Realms stood cracked, half-devoured, but still standing. The light reached through the remnants of shattered towers, glinting off broken weapons, fallen banners, and the soot-stained stone.
Liora stood barefoot on the Citadel's highest terrace, her cloak fluttering behind her. The wind carried ash and silence. But beneath the surface, she felt it, that subtle thrum of life returning.
The Rift was gone. The enemy beaten back. But the cost still weighed heavy on her shoulders.
Below, the survivors worked in quiet unity. Sentinel and sorcerer, peasant and noble. They moved together, burying the dead, tending to the wounded, forging bonds forged not by bloodlines or titles, but by fire.
Lucien approached from behind, his steps sure despite the lingering pain in his leg. He paused only a breath away, his warmth wrapping around her like armor.
"You should rest."
She smiled faintly. "The Rift didn't sleep. Neither will I."
He chuckled softly, but his gaze never left the horizon. "It's quiet. Too quiet."
Liora turned to face him. His jaw was bruised, his arm in a sling. Yet his eyes,those storm-dark eyes, held strength. And something else. Something only she had learned to read in him.
Worry.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
He didn't answer immediately. He simply looked at her, really looked at her. The wind tangled in her hair, her skin smudged with soot and sweat, but her eyes burned with clarity.
"I'm thinking," he said, voice low, "that peace always feels like a trap when you've survived too many wars."
She reached out and touched his chest, where his heartbeat thundered.
"Then maybe it's time we learn to live without expecting war to return."
He covered her hand with his.
They stood in silence, watching the sunrise bathe the ruined kingdom in gold.
That afternoon, the Hall of Scribes reopened.
It was the only part of the Citadel left mostly intact, its great domed ceiling blessed long ago by an enchantment that repelled darkness. Even the Rift had left it untouched, as if the stories within were too sacred to corrupt.
Liora walked the halls slowly, her fingertips brushing the spines of ancient tomes. Everything that had come before the kings, the queens, the rebellions, the betrayals, it all lived here. But none of the books spoke of her. Of the Rift. Of the Pact.
Until she reached the center.
A pedestal rose from the ground. On it, a book bound in crimson hide pulsed faintly. Her breath caught.
The cover bore no title. Just a single symbol:
The Eye of the Rift.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
Blank.
Then, in a swirl of ink, letters formed.
"To the one who bears the Starborn Flame, welcome. The end was never the end. It was always the beginning."
A name shimmered beneath the words:
Elan'thir.
She whispered it aloud, and the chamber answered with a low hum.
In the same instant, a gust of wind blew out every torch in the hall. Darkness swallowed the room. And in the blackness, a presence stirred.
"You shouldn't have come alone."
Liora spun around, summoning flame to her hand.
From the shadows, a figure emerged. Cloaked in midnight, face hidden behind a silver mask etched with runes.
"I come seeking truth," Liora said, steadying her voice.
"You come seeking the end," the figure replied. "And it comes for you whether you run or fight."
She tightened her grip on the flame. "Who are you?"
"I am the Watcher. And you, Starborn, have broken the chains that held the darkness at bay."
The masked figure raised a hand. The book on the pedestal closed of its own accord. The room pulsed.
"Every Rift has a price," the Watcher whispered. "You closed one. Three more stir."
Liora's breath hitched. "Where?"
But the Watcher was already fading.
"In the East... among the Forgotten Isles... and within him."
The flame in her palm dimmed.
Within him.
Lucien.
That night, sleep eluded her.
She wandered to the Citadel's abandoned garden. Once vibrant, now wilted, the air thick with the memory of life.
Lucien found her there, sitting on a stone bench beneath the skeletal remains of the moonvine arbor.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said.
She stared at her hands. "Not a ghost. A warning."
He knelt in front of her. "Talk to me."
She told him everything. The book. The Watcher. The new Rifts. The prophecy.
When she reached the part about within him, he stiffened.
"No," he said immediately. "Whatever it means, it's wrong. I'm not one of them."
She cupped his cheek. "Lucien, it might not be your fault. The Rift chose people. Marked them. You were born in the shadows, orphaned in the Wastes. There could be magic in your blood you've never known."
He stood, backing away. "No. I fight against that magic."
She rose too. "You fight because of it."
He turned, fists clenched. "So what, you think I'll turn into one of those monsters?"
"I think if we ignore it, it'll destroy you."
The silence between them stretched, heavy and sharp.
Then, finally, he looked at her, eyes raw.
"What if I lose control?"
She stepped close and rested her head against his chest. "Then I'll bring you back."
His arms wrapped around her. For a moment, they were just two people, holding each other in a garden of withered flowers, trying to hold on to something real.
In the morning, they prepared to leave.
The Council had sent word. The Eastern border trembled with unnatural storms. Port towns reported whispers rising from the sea. Something ancient stirred beneath the waves.
Their journey would begin with the Forgotten Isles.
But before they departed, Liora returned to the Hall of Scribes.
The book had vanished.
In its place, a feather, white, pristine, warm to the touch.
Lucien joined her, armored and ready.
"You found your answer?"
"No," she said, tucking the feather into her pouch. "But I've found the path."
He nodded.
And together, they left the ruined Citadel, bound for the unknown.
As they rode into the rising sun, a whisper trailed behind them:
The Rift is closed.
But the flame has only just begun.