The night air hung heavy with a biting chill, as though the breath of Artantica itself had begun to slow, struggling to endure the fading heartbeat of the Ice Fountain. What once flowed with ancient life now whispered like a dying breath, barely stirring the frost that clung to the sacred stones.
In the pale glow of a waning moon, Eryndor sat alone on the cold lip of the basin, his eyes locked on the still surface of the fountain. In his palm, he held a small pendant — the one he had found near the edge, left behind by Selhara. It pulsed faintly, as though resisting time, but it felt impossibly heavy in his hand. Not in weight, but in what it carried. Memory. Loss. Guilt.
His mind returned to the moment that had shattered everything.
The scream. The blood which he didn't see now stained his hands on her lifeless body . Seriane's lifeless body cradled in his arms.
He had done it. So he taught.He had killed her.
And in that single act, he believed the curse had stirred. The first transformation — the moment a werewolf awakens — had taken root in him.
If that was true, then the prophecy no longer held meaning for him. He was no longer chosen. No longer worthy.
The thought struck deep, twisting through his chest like winter wind through broken branches.
He closed his eyes, and she came to him in memory. Seriane, with her soft smile and firelight eyes. He saw her twirling through falling snow, barefoot and laughing, calling him stiff and cold and impossible to love — yet loving him anyway. She had once pressed her hand to his chest and whispered that his heart beat differently, that it longed for more than duty. He hadn't believed her. Now he would give anything to hear her say it again.
But memory, too, fades.
And all that remained was the silence of what could not be undone.
Far beneath the frozen surface, hidden deep within the winding corridors of the vault, Zelaira Dosh of the Kirenholme family (the unnamed girl Kaelen once met) moved through the shadows with careful steps. Her fingertips brushed the ancient carvings on a relic chest worn smooth by time and secrecy.
She paused as her eyes caught the faint outline of an inscription. It was older than the others — buried beneath layers of dust and deceit. As she traced the letters, her breath caught in her throat.
The prophecy.
It had not been born of fate.
Its shape had been twisted. Its words manipulated.
Not by divine design, but by the Watchers — those spectral guardians cloaked in silence, who wore wisdom like armor and hid control beneath the veil of protection.
Her stomach turned as she remembered Morvane. The way he lingered near the vault. The questions he never answered. The visits made in the hours no one watched.
He was hiding something. She could feel it.
But the truth would wait. She would not act in haste. She would wait for the right moment. And when it came, she would not hesitate.
High above the frost-ridden lands, in a chamber carved from obsidian and forgotten night, Morvane knelt beneath shifting moonlight. The stone beneath him was colder than ice, and the voice that rose from the shadows around him was softer than wind.
"The fountain weakens. Balance must be restored, no matter the price."
He clenched his jaw but said nothing. His thoughts wandered to Selhara. To her warmth. Her defiance. Her death. She had believed in something more, and for that, she was taken.
There was only one path left. A ritual forbidden in every tongue. Ancient. Dangerous. Whispered of in legend.
It was his last hope.
A chance to rewrite what had already burned.
But even the thought of it carved fear through him, for power of that kind never came without demand. And what it would ask in return, he could not yet name.
Back at the fountain's edge, Eryndor exhaled slowly. His breath hung in the air like mist, vanishing into the night. His doubts clung to him like frost, but in the glow of the relic's soft light, something stirred. Not resolve. Not certainty. But a quiet strength, buried deep beneath the ruin.
"I may be broken," he whispered, his voice nearly lost to the cold. "But the fountain doesn't need perfection. It needs someone who chooses."
And he had chosen.
As the clouds shifted, the moonlight spilled over the Ice Fountain once more. Its waters shimmered faintly, trembling like a flame against the wind. Fragile. But still alive.
Somewhere in the distance, a beast howled into the night, its cry stretching across the mountains.
The Ice Fountain was failing.
And the world stood at the edge of something it could not yet name.