Thaelyn trembled, her voice low. “What does that mean for me?”
The Watcher tilted his head, studying her not with pity, but with reverence. “It means that when the moons turn red, and the Rift breaks open, it will not be the Gods who answer. It will be you.”
A gust of power swept through the room, and for a moment, the torches lining the walls bowed in her direction. She fell to her knees. Thorne was there in a heartbeat, catching her before she struck stone, his arms steady, eyes wild with concern. “What did he do?” he hissed at the Watcher.
But Thaelyn gripped his sleeve with both hands, her eyes shining with tears of awe and fear. “The Watcher gave meeverything.” Aether swelled. It no longer flickered at the edge of her reach; itansweredher now. Something else moved with it, a storm within. A memory of wings, fire, and a choice yet to come. When she stood again, the chamber bent ever so slightly to her will. She no longer walked in the shadow of the prophecy. Shewasthe prophecy incarnate, and the war had just been rewritten.
Chapter
Fifty-Seven
The sky had turned wrong. It wasn’t a color that had a name, not red or violet, not black or blue. It was a smear of every hue once seen at sunset, torn open and scattered like ashes across the horizon. Nyxariel felt it first, a pull behind her eyes, a soundless hum from the east that clawed through her bones.
“He stirs again,”she murmured into the wind, her vast wings cleaving the clouds as she soared high above the Scorchfields.
Vornokh answered with a snarl that echoed in her mind, low and resonant. “The Veil thins. I can taste the storm in the marrow of the world. It remembers.”
For nights, the ancient dragons had known something approached. Their sleep had grown fragmented, and when rest came, it was laced with fire and memory. The dreams were not theirs alone; they belonged to another time, a scar across history, the first Sundering.
In these visions, Nyxariel stood on a mountain of obsidian, the sky split like glass, and Vornokh roared with fury, chained in shadow. Elirien’s voice cried out across the wind, and Serenya's echoed after it, both names flaring like stars lost to time. They had failed to hold the balance. And now their blood would rise to try again.
Back within the archives below Asgar’s heart, Thaelyn stood before the Watcher’s Mirror, the silver-veined circle embedded in the wall alive with ripples of pale light. Vaelen Solen, his handslined with ink and age, eyes glowing faintly from days of sleepless reading, murmured soft incantations beside her.
“It is responding to your sigil,” he whispered, the edges of his voice brittle with awe. “You’ve awakened what most thought was a myth.”
Thaelyn kept her eyes on the mirror, where flickers of stars appeared and disappeared like candlelight in a storm. Her hands trembled.
“What am I seeing?” she asked, her voice barely audible.
Vaelen turned a page in the worn tome beside him. His fingers brushed the parchment reverently.
“Fragments of the Rift. Echoes.” He hesitated. “The Watcher, the true one, not merely the sentry at the tomb, was not just a guardian. It was a conduit. A living sigil that held the balance between Aether and all else. The sigil you bear is not a symbol.”
Thaelyn looked down at the glow that pulsed over her chest and forearms. The lines had deepened, the curves intricate now, forming a complete circle across her sternum that matched the mirror perfectly. It hurt sometimes. Not physically, it was never that easy. But when she channeled Aether now, it didn’t stop at her fingertips. It kept moving, folding in on itself, warping, and whispering.
“And Thorne?” she asked quietly.
Vaelen turned toward her. “He is shadow and flame. Not born of the Rift, but bound to it. The old records said the Prime Bonds of dragonkind once acted as living seals. Together, you and he are the final seal. You both reflect the heart of what was broken, and what might heal it.”
She swallowed. “But what happens if we fail?”
He did not look away. “Then the Veil collapses. And Aether devours the realms.”
Up above, the corridors of the Asgar Training Academy had grown quieter, not from peace but from anticipation. Wordless preparations drifted through the halls. Banners had been taken down. Sky sentries had doubled. The shadows stretched longer, and the days seemed to grow short.
Thorne Dareth had not spoken much. He trained withCommander Dareth and Aerisya each morning, his movements sharp, deliberate. He spoke only when pressed. At night, he returned to his dorm, where Thaelyn had moved in. And though he lay beside her, his dreams were too loud to let him sleep.
That evening, after her lesson with Vaelen, Thaelyn returned to find Thorne staring at his armor. It lay open on the table, each piece polished and perfectly arranged. The lamellar plates gleamed dully under the candlelight.
“You’re planning something,” she said, setting her cloak aside.
He didn’t look at her immediately. “Preparing.”
“Thorne.”
He exhaled slowly, shoulders rising and falling. When he turned, his face was calm, but his eyes betrayed him. They were bloodshot around the edges.
“The prophecy keeps narrowing. The moons are almost aligned. Kaen’s forces are gathering. I can feel it. I don’t need the Queen’s visions to see it anymore.”
