Across from me, my twin groaned, ever the softer half, blooming with the weight of her return. Luciara, bound to root and thorn, let the earth reclaim her. Trees erupted like geysers, vines unfurling from her skin, moss dancing over stone. Her antlers—once laughably small—now crowned her like a sovereign of the wild. A veil slipped over her eyes, and a halo of blossoms and briars wreathed her brow. She was beautiful in her own way, if you like that kind of thing. I preferred ruin.
Moireth exhaled, and fate answered. Six arms unfolded with eerie grace, strings of destiny stretching from wrist to wrist like a marionette made of time. Her ears sharpened into elegant points, her legs thickened with shag, hooves striking the floor like drums. She shimmered—not like sunlight, no. Like truth unveiled.
And Chronomir—hah. Ever the tired clock. His aged shell rippled. Hair cascaded down his back, his aged face tightening until he resembled a relic of seventy winters instead of a hundred. Still ancient. Still dangerous. His four arms—two pale as starlight, two dark as mourning—rose in ritual as his cane twisted and grew into a staff of authority.
The room could not hold us.
Luciara grew first, vast as the forests she once slumbered beneath. Her hands, wide as hills, cradled the wolves—her children, ever pitiful, ever precious. Chronomir’s barrier curled like time slowed, sheltering that petal-hearted Rose. Moireth—bless her obsession—cupped the boy Caspian like thread made flesh.
And then the fortress shattered.
Stone screamed. Glass burst like laughter. And there we stood, Primordials—whole,undeniable—facing one another for the first time in millennia.
My breath was a storm in my chest. My smile, a blade.
We lowered our Avatars. They could not be apart of the next moment.
One by one, we took each other’s hands. Our circles had never broken. Not truly. Not ever.
We rose. Inrhythm. We chanted.
Moireth veiled her vision—sight turned inward to the threads.
Chronomir’s hands pressed to his chest—time beating beneath bone.
Luciara touched her womb—life incubating wrath.
And I… I placed my hand over my mouth.
For death, when it speaks, does not ask for permission.
From our bodies, powerpoured. Not like light. Not like fire. Likeessencemade visible.
Green and red mist from Luciara, wild and bleeding.
Black and silver from me—elegant, endless,final.
Gold and white from Moireth, radiant as forgotten truths.
White and silver from Chronomir, precise and patient.
The beams pierced the cosmos. The sky blackened for miles. The snow howled as it rose into a storm—and then, silence.
We descended, shrinking, collapsing into flesh once more. But not diminished. No—condensed. Potency refined.
My boots struck the earth.
The world will remember us now.
And I will make sure they never forget what it means…tobetraya Primordial.
Chapter twenty-nine
Did You Think That Was It?
Ione
Iawakentosoftness.
