CHAPTER 99: _"A Crown Made of Goodbye"_
The Vault of Endings still burned, its doors split open not by key or spell, but by the force of a kiss meant to shatter history. Where Arien once stood a prince cursed, now stood something more. Something less. Something… rewritten.
Lysia clutched her chest. Her heartbeat raced, but it wasn't her own. It was his. Arien's soul—half-light, half-curse—now surged through her veins like second fire.
But they had not won.
The gods had only paused.
And the Mother of Flames—the one who had birthed the curse into the world—awoke at last.
Her voice thundered in the minds of all living things: "A love that survives death is a heresy against fate. You will be unmade."
The skies tore open, and from the heavens fell the Blight Seraphs—angels of rot, beautiful in their decay, weapons of divine punishment.
Arien raised his hand, palm glowing with symbols that once meant death. Now they shimmered with choice.
"Run," he whispered to Lysia.
"No," she replied. "We fight together."
And so the battle for remembrance began.
--
In Elira's capital, riots burned like stars fallen from orbit. Queen Relis held her crown tighter, fingers bleeding. "Kill the girl," she whispered again, though no one remained to hear her but ghosts.
In the dungeons below, the last truthkeeper wrote with blood: _'Love will return in another form.'_
--
The Remnants gathered. Their numbers were fewer now.
- The assassin who saw the future too late.
- The child whose voice could stop time.
- The priestess with no gods left to pray to.
Each had lost something.
Each had decided they would lose no more.
They stood on the ridge of Orien's Fall, watching as the Blight Seraphs painted the sky with fire.
--
Arien held Lysia close, their bond now deeper than touch. Words no longer served them. They spoke in memory, in glance, in pain shared.
He remembered the boy who had no heartbeat.
She remembered the girl who was taught to fear her own feelings.
Together, they became something the gods had not prepared for:
Hope.
--
The battle spanned three days. Mountains crumbled. Rivers turned to steam. The Vault pulsed with ancient grief.
At the edge of time, the Mother of Flames appeared—not a figure, but a flame that took the shape of regret. She offered them a choice:
- Give up their love and be spared.
- Keep it, and burn the world.
Lysia stepped forward.
Her voice was soft. "We are not yours to break."
She kissed Arien again.
And the world burned.
But this time… it was not destruction.
It was rebirth.
Flowers bloomed where corpses fell. Rain fell in deserts long forgotten. The curse cracked and spilled its secrets into the soil, feeding roots that reached the stars.
The Blight Seraphs fell—not dead, but dreaming.
And the Mother of Flames?
She wept.
Not for defeat.
But for understanding.
--
The war did not end.
But something older than war… did.
And when it was over, Arien turned to Lysia and asked, "What now?"
She smiled.
"We live."