Nothing would touch them here.
Day after day, Alora walked the dark halls, her footsteps echoing like a heartbeat in a tomb. Searching for something she couldn’t find. Even the castle seemed to sleep, its spires sagging into shadow.
The silence gnawed at her, night after night. With none to speak to, none to laugh with, none to hold her hand, she turnedrestless. At last, she gave in to the deeper call of her magic. Her body broke, reshaped, swelled until she coiled among the spires of the black fortress as a dragon with crimson scales.
Her vast wings carried her around the silent city, her eyes burning crimson in the endless dark. A restless guardian over a land of dreams.
But holding the Rift together took all of her power and it often left her exhausted. Her strength poured into the wound without pause, draining her with every passing heartbeat. The world dimmed at the edges of her vision as the Rift bucked and writhed beneath her hands, never still, never quiet.
To preserve her strength, she often slept. In the forest or below her brother’s window.
Sometimes, she slept in the depths of Karag Dûr, but the emptiness there reminded her too much of the hollow in her chest.
And sometimes … she dreamed of Rune.
Of his smile, his warm caress, his voice whispering in her ear as they danced in the forest. Those nights were the hardest. Her sobs would turn to screams that echoed in the stillness until she couldn’t breathe.
He had left her with a smile at dawn.
Now she was left to wander the kingdom alone while the rest of the world was sleeping.
She wandered for a season, perhaps for more. The weight of silence pressing down on her like iron chains.
Always alone.
Always waiting.
This was the true curse, eternity in isolation. Maybe there had never been a way to break it at all.
Alora stared blankly at Theia, where she now lay to rest beside her mother and Rihan beside his.
How often had Rune done the same? Simply watched her still form, believing her dead. Her best friend lay so still, Alora was beginning to think they were all dead, too.
And in that empty quiet, came a faint sound softly echoing in the halls.
Footsteps.
Alora’s breath caught. A part of her believed she imagined it. She had to imagine it. But then she heard them again.
Leaping from her chair, shadows gathered and whisked her away toward the source. She appeared in the forbidden wing of the castle, precisely in her mother’s old workshop. It was empty. Frowning, Alora studied the dusty room, her gaze falling on the spinning wheel in the corner.
Until she spotted what was missing.
Footsteps carried clear in the dark hall, and she ran toward the door, glimpsing a familiar figure disappearing around a corner.
Her eyes widened, her faint whisper echoing.“Caelum…?”
Confusion clawed at her chest, half convinced she had gone mad. Quiet as the shadows themselves, Alora followed.
Caelum slipped through the castle’s outer gates and into the forest beyond. She kept her distance, watching as he came to a halt before an old oak at the edge of the wood.
From his cloak, he drew something that froze her in place.
The crimson spindle.
Her heart hammered in her throat as he set its point to the tree’s bark. But instead of spinning thread, Caelum carved lines into the wood, each stroke sharp and deliberate. Glyphs flared gold, the tree glowing as the lines connected.
And then, with a low hum that rattled through her bones, the tree split, the bark reshaping itself into a circle crowned with branches. A portal bloomed in the center, swirling with gold light.
