Three weeks after the eclipse‑war, dawn over Aurelian still dawned twice.
First came the ordinary band of lavender that touched the palace spires; then, half a breath later, a faint second blush bloomed above it—paler, almost opalescent. Scholars dubbed the phenomenon Leora's Afterlight. I pretended the name didn't fluster me, but each morning the second glow reminded me of the Arrow of Twin Dawn and the burden it left behind.
Today, Afterlight found me on a half‑collapsed parapet overlooking the western courtyard of King Myron's citadel. Masons below chipped at rogue star‑iron petals fossilised into marble. Across the yard, a line of war orphans queued for soup ladles. Aurelian still smelled of smoke and surprise.
Behind me, the king's study door groaned. Lord Auron emerged, freshly bandaged but upright, silver‑flecked eyes alert. "His Majesty is ready," he said, voice carrying the dry amusement he wore like second skin.
"His Majesty no longer," I corrected, smoothing the midnight‑blue velvet doublet Calia had forced on me. "The treaty strips him of crown until reparations finish."
Auron's smile flickered. "Old habits." He held the door.
King—ex‑king—Myron stood at a stripped desk, quill poised above parchment. The once‑opulent chamber now looked monastic; tapestries removed, throne cushions gone. Only a single mirror remained, tar‑paint streaked across its glass. He bowed stiffly. "Empress Leora."
No title for himself. Progress, perhaps.
I placed the treaty codicil before him: a vellum sheet inscribed in Tenebris glyphs and mortal script. "This clause confirms demolition of the Celestial Foundry and surrender of all star‑iron shards to Nightspire," I said. "Sign, and your grain caravans may leave by month‑end."
His hand fluttered. "The Foundry is sacred—"
"Sacred nearly killed two worlds," I cut. "Its ashes will feed your starving districts."
Silence stretched; then he signed, ink blotting where his quill trembled.
I sealed parchment with twin‑dawn sigil. "We'll return tomorrow for inventories."
Auron escorted me out. In corridor shadows, his voice dropped. "You bully better than any demon."
"I learned from the best," I replied, half‑smile. "How fare your exile plans?"
"Isles await." He tapped travel papers under his cloak. "Once reparations ship, I vanish with night tide." He halted at spiral stair, gaze sharpening. "One caution, Empress: Mirrors here still whisper your name. Their cracks bleed, even tar‑painted."
I stiffened. "Chrona‑Glass contamination?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps something older." He descended, boots echoing.
I returned to Nightspire via mirror‑gate at dusk. Vael met me in portal chamber, wing mostly recovered, his runeblade slung across back. "Ravan bids you to the Mirror Wing," he said, voice tight. "Something… new."
The hall felt colder than weeks ago. Glass panels, once dormant, now pulsed in strobe beats, each pulse radiating hair‑raising static. Ravan waited before the Chrona Obelisk, flanked by two rune‑smiths weaving stabilising sigils that fizzled on contact.
"Another fracture?" I asked.
He shook head. "Not fracture—message." He pointed.
Within the obelisk, a glyph glimmered: eight‑pointed star encircled by serpents devouring tails. It rotated, casting shards of astral blue across our faces.
Recognition tugged faint memory—something from the Blind Archivist's forbidden shelves. "The Asterion Mark," I breathed. "Symbol of the Celestial Custodians. Legend says they police cosmic meddling—gods that punish mortals who misuse falling‑star metal."
Ravan's jaw set. "And our arrow repurposed such metal."
I faced him. "What does the mirror show?"
In answer, the glyph brightened into image: a night sky splitting, a colossal stone streaking flame—meteor?—descending toward the ocean between realms. On its iron surface, the eight‑pointed star burned.
"The Custodians send their envoy," Ravan murmured. "Or projectile."
Vael's wings rustled unease. "Arrival?"
"Seven nights, if vision truthful," Ravan said.
I exhaled. "We barely healed from last war."
"There is more." He gestured; mirror rippled, revealing the former specter‑Empress—the mirror bride—watching meteor with smile both hopeful and mournful, as though greeting long‑awaited justice.
I shivered. "Our truce with mirrors unravels."
Ravan cut the vision with a word of power, glass darkening. "We handle one calamity at a time. First: The Custodians' stone. Archivist researches rites; I mobilise sky legion to intercept."
"I'll aid research," I said. "If Custodians judge us, I need arguments."
"To convince cosmic arbiters?" His silver eyes softened. "Your tongue bent monarchs; perhaps bends stars."
I almost laughed—almost. "Let's hope."
Midnight — Grand Atheneum
Scroll towers surrounded Archivist's desk. I leafed through "Starfall Doctrines," "Oaths of Asterion," "Atlas of Penal Comets." Calia brewed steady flow of ink‑root tea, eyes wide at every sketch of planet‑smasher asteroids shackled by runes.
At last, a brittle folio offered clue:
When Custodians descend, present the "Tear of Glass returned," kneel upon mirrored dawn, and plead Balance by twin‑flame rite.
The Tear of Glass—the droplet I sacrificed, now dissolved in our arrow. Gone. Balance demanded its restoration.
I rubbed temples. "We need new tear. But the first empress—"
Archivist's head tilted. "Mirrors respawn tears when a living memory equals sacrifice."
Calia frowned. "Memory equal to what you gave last time: gardens in spring."
I thought of Afterlight sky—memory in the making. "I know a memory to yield."
Next morning, I visited orphan soup line again. This time, instead of parapet distance, I served ladles—listened to children argue about petals that once fell like snow. I showed them soul‑fire tricks, coaxed shy smiles. When the pot emptied, one girl pressed wildflower into my hand—first bloom since eclipse; gardens reborn.
Tears pricked. Memory etched.
That night, in Mirror Wing, I faced the specter again. She watched me through pane, calm. "A new tear," I requested. "Equal trade."
She lifted hand; between glass and air formed droplet, shimmering.
"What memory?" she asked.
I inhaled. "The smiles of every child I fed today."
Pain streaked heart, but I nodded. She touched my forehead—warm this time. Laughter echoes faded; a small ache replaced them. Tear fell into my palm, cool weight.
"Balance, once more," she whispered, then vanished.
I left wing blinking back moisture I could still feel yet no longer recall reason for.
Day Four — Lava Dock
Ravan, Vael, and I boarded a sky dreadnought—obsidian hull, sailwings glowing runic orange. Destination: ocean coordinates where Custodian stone would breach realm barrier. Behind, Nightspire balconies brimmed with soldiers saluting; below, courtyards sprouted the first shoots of moon‑grass seeded by Calia—gardens without memories but future roots.
At dusk, endless water sprawled beneath keel, reflecting Afterlight twin sun. Stars blinked overhead; one star burned brighter, growing.
"Stone inbound," Vael called, spyglass shimmering. Meteoric flame carved turquoise streak through heavens, roaring louder than storm.
Ravan and I stood at prow, Tear of Glass nested in twin‑dawn arrowhead now fitted to smaller bow. If Custodians demanded symbol, we would fire tear into stone—offering balance.
Wind howled; wave crests foamed. The stone loomed—a fortress‑sized iron sphere wreathed in comet tail, rune‑brands glowing eight‑point star.
Soundless voice filled mind: "Mortal realms, stand for reckoning."
Sailors dropped to knees. I planted feet. "We stand," I answered aloud. "Twin dawn forged to save, not conquer."
Sphere cracked; a shard detached, hovering—pure glass. I fitted arrow, Tear shining. Ravan laid hand over mine as before; energies twined.
The shard projected runes that meant GIVE BACK WHAT WAS TAKEN.
We released.
Arrow streaked—no explosive song this time, but hush. It pierced shard; Tear melded within. Glass pulsed, mending to a transparent heart glowing dawn‑color.
The stone ceased descent, hovering. Voice again: "Balance tithed. Observe probation." Sphere dissolved to constellation‑dust, sprinkling ocean in cascading aurora.
Crew cheered, subdued. I sagged; Ravan caught me. "Probation," I muttered. "Means watchful eyes remain."
He steadied me. "Then we build worlds worth their gaze."
Sky cleared; stars resumed ancient patterns, minus one Asterion mark, now dim.
Return
Nightspire greeted us with bells of volcanic glass. Children's laughter carried from growing gardens—sound I couldn't remember but knew I had nurtured. I smiled, content with loss.
In throne hall, council awaited. Sarielle's seat remained empty—ashes swept. New voices rose: former orphans as pages, forge‑smiths as advisors, mortal scholars trading astronomy with demon seers.
I addressed them: "Two wars ended: the blade of mortals, the judgment of stars. We hold peace under probation. Our task is not to fear scrutiny, but earn it."
Applause thundered, genuine.
Later, on balcony, Afterlight glowed. Ravan handed me pot bearing first moon‑grass sprout. "For your new gardens," he said.
I traced leaf. Memory absent yet purpose unfaded. "Let's plant on palace roof—closer to twin dawn."
He chuckled, entwining fingers with mine. Silver scar and jade fuse pulsed.
Above us, the sky no longer iron, but velvet—stitched with stars that now knew our names.
And somewhere, in mirrored halls, a specter watched, smile softer, perhaps proud.