The battle had ended, but Kael could still taste ash in the air.
Not from Lysava—she was gone, scattered into memory and magic—but from the void she left behind. The world had changed. Again. And this time, the silence felt more dangerous than the roar.
Elaria traced the charred edge of a fallen banner.
The crest of the Skybreak Court.
"It used to mean something," she murmured.
Kael stood beside her, wings tucked, blood dried across his neck. "We'll give it new meaning."
She turned to him, eyes still storm-wild. "Not by rebuilding. Not yet. First, we hunt the echoes."
He nodded. "Then we start in the east."
The Ash Priestess had not left merely destruction in her wake—she had awakened old loyalties.
Deep beneath the Vale of Mourning, in catacombs long sealed, cultists chanted her name.
Ash-bound, vein-branded, flesh marked with scars of reverence.
They called themselves the Ash Reclaimed.
And they sought to resurrect more than Lysava.
They wanted the Sovereign reborn.
Through flesh.
Through dragonblood.
Through Kael.
Their journey eastward was grim.
Villages deserted. Wells poisoned. Forests where the trees whispered lies.
Kael kept close to Elaria's side.
But something about the land felt wrong.
"It's like the world's holding its breath," she whispered one night, curled by the fire.
Kael traced her spine, every notch familiar. "Waiting for what?"
She looked over her shoulder. "For us to break."
He kissed the base of her neck. "Then we don't."
But her silence after said everything.
They reached the ruins of Emberlight.
Once a city of dragon-kin. Now a tomb.
Bones bleached white in the sun.
Charred symbols carved into every door.
At the center: a pyre. Freshly burned.
Elaria knelt, fingers brushing the ash. "Sacrifice."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Voluntary?"
She shook her head. "Devotional."
From the shadows, a voice echoed: "She still breathes."
They turned blades in hand.
A woman stood there. Wrapped in black silk, eyes smoldering amber.
"I saw you in the flames," she said to Kael.
Elaria stepped forward. "He's not yours."
"He's not yours either," the woman said, smiling faintly.
Kael growled. "Who are you?"
"One who remembers. One who believes."
She vanished into smoke.
And when it cleared, the ash had spelled one word:
"Return."
That night, Kael dreamed again.
Chains. Fire. Screams he recognized.
Himself—bound, bleeding, roaring as his wings were torn.
But Elaria wasn't there.
And that's when the fear hit deepest.
He woke gasping.
Elaria stared into the fire, eyes wet. "She's trying to separate us."
He nodded. "She's using everything we are."
Elaria turned to him. "Then we become something more."
They kissed.
Not sweet. Not desperate.
But brutal. Clinging. Desperate to anchor.
They made love like it was armor.
Bruises as marks of survival. Moans as war cries.
When he pinned her wrists, she arched, daring.
When she flipped him, he gasped, surrendering.
They weren't just lovers.
They were each other's flame.
And the fire refused to die.
The next morning, they descended into the Vale.
Toward the catacombs.
Toward the place where Kael's blood once sang.
The stone greeted him like a forgotten hymn.
"Do you feel that?" he asked.
Elaria nodded, jaw clenched. "It's calling you."
The doors opened.
Not by spell.
By recognition.
Within: hundreds of acolytes, faces painted in ash and gold.
They turned.
They bowed.
"The Flame-Born returns," they chanted.
Kael flinched.
Elaria drew her sword. "He is no one's god."
A man stepped forward. Tall. Bare-chested. Veins lit like magma.
"We don't worship him," he said calmly. "We need him."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "For what?"
"To finish what Lysava began."
He threw powder into the air.
Visions exploded:
Kael atop a throne of dragons.
Elaria at his feet.
A world bathed in fire.
Kael roared. Flames burst around him. "NO."
The acolytes hissed.
The air shimmered.
And the cult attacked.
It was a massacre.
Kael unleashed his true form.
Elaria danced in steel and blood.
They were not kind.
They did not hesitate.
Each acolyte fell with a whisper of ash.
Until only the leader remained.
He knelt, smiling.
"You burn beautifully," he said.
Then slit his own throat.
The stone screamed.
A sigil ignited.
And far above, something shifted.
When they emerged from the catacombs, the sky bled.
Red lightning forked across black clouds.
"He opened something," Elaria whispered.
Kael clenched his fists. "A gate."
They flew fast.
Toward the capital ruins.
Toward the remnants of the court.
What they found wasn't the gate.
It was her.
Lysava.
Not reborn.
Transformed.
Her body was fire wrapped in flesh.
No longer seeking passion—now seeking oblivion.
She didn't speak.
She simply raised a hand.
And the heavens cracked.
Kael and Elaria dove, shielding what was left of the realm.
Their magic flared.
The people—what few remained—screamed, fled, prayed.
And from the rift above, something descended.
Not a dragon.
A god.
Or what remained of one.
The Sovereign's essence.
Eyes endless. Wings made of ruin.
Lysava beckoned it like a lover.
"Together, we erase everything."
Kael snarled. "Not while we breathe."
Elaria took his hand. "Then we breathe fire."
They rose together.
Not lovers.
Not warriors.
Avatars of a new dawn.
Kael unleashed the ancient tongue.
Elaria bled magic into steel.
They attacked as one.
Not to kill.
To rewrite.
To change the story before it ended.
And as they struck—
The Sovereign screamed.
Lysava wept.
And the world held its breath.