They said Solmira would never fall.
That its golden towers would stand through war and winter. That its people—proud, fierce, unbroken—would always rise again.
But pride does not stop fire.
The sky was red that night. Not with sunset, but with blood and flame. I stood on the broken steps of the eastern wall, my sword arm trembling, my lungs screaming with smoke. The banners of Kaereth rose like shadows over the ruins. And behind them, he came.
Ronan.
The prince of the army that burned my home.
But not the one who had wanted this.
His armor was scorched. His face streaked with ash and disbelief. When he saw me—truly saw me—he dropped his blade.
"Adelaine," he breathed. Not with malice. With mourning.
I staggered, blood soaking through my leathers, vision swimming. A Kaerethian arrow still lodged near my ribs. My fingers tightened around my sword, even as my knees buckled.
He caught me before I fell.
"You shouldn't be here," he whispered, cradling me as flames licked the stone around us. "You should've run."
"I don't run," I gasped. "Not from this. Not from you."
Tears blurred his eyes. "What have they done to you?"
"They did what they always wanted. They broke us."
He held me closer, his breath shuddering. The world was collapsing around us—walls crumbling, screams echoing through the night. But in that moment, there was only the two of us. Soldier and prince. Enemy and beloved.
I leaned my head against his shoulder.
"If I die…" I murmured, voice barely a whisper, "let me die standing."
He choked on a sob. "Don't say that."
"It's already happening."
And then—fire.
Behind his shoulder, I saw it: a surge of flame rushing down the corridor, devouring everything in its path. My grip loosened. My sight dimmed.
The last thing I remembered was warmth—not gentle, but consuming.
And Ronan's voice, breaking as he screamed my name.
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