The sky cracked, not with thunder but with the mournful cry of a dying god. The Ice Fountain had begun to collapse, folding in on itself like the breath of a dream forgotten. Snow whirled in wild spirals, stirred by the ancient pulse of power no longer contained. Its light shimmered one last time, casting long shadows across the cliffs of Artantica. And in that final blink of radiance, Morvane ran.
He did not wait for the judgment of the families, nor did he look back to the ruins that had once offered him purpose. His boots struck ice, then stone, then hollowed earth as he fled through the throat of the mountain. He was bleeding, yes, but he was alive. And in his mind, perhaps survival was the only truth left worth carrying.
Zelaira saw his figure slipping into the mist, nothing more than a flicker of black across the white. Her lungs burned with cold, her hands trembling with the last traces of magic, but she followed. Not out of vengeance alone, though her heart had every right to it, but because justice was not a thing to be spoken — it was to be done. Beside her ran Ariel, silent and swift, loyal to the last heartbeat of Eryndor's name. They said nothing as they pursued Morvane into the Valley of Conquest.
The valley welcomed them with silence, a cradle of bone and snow where warriors once tested their fate. Old swords lay rusted beneath the frost, and banners torn by time clung to jagged rock. Here, echoes lived longer than men. Here, blood remembered its roots.
Morvane turned at the edge of a broken stone altar, his face smeared with ash, his eyes mad with defiance.
"You think you'll stop me," he said, voice cracking like dry ice. "You think truth makes you worthy."
Zelaira stepped forward, her voice steady though the wind tore at her cloak. "You killed Seriane. You framed Eryndor. And you turned Vareon into a pawn for your grief. You are no longer one of us."
He laughed, bitter and small. "There is no 'us' anymore. Only those who survive."
The clash came swift and cruel. Blade met relic-forged steel. Light and shadow danced in cold rhythm. Zelaira struck with grace, with fury, with the broken pieces of a world she once believed could be saved. Morvane fought like a man already dead, filled with rot and fire, fueled by secrets too long buried. He was stronger. Not better, not wiser — just more willing to lose everything.
He pinned her down against the altar stones. Her wrists trembled under his weight, her magic burning away into the frost. His blade rose, glinting silver where the moon should have been.
"This ends with you," he hissed.
And it might have.
But Ariel threw himself between them.
His body collided with Morvane's with the force of a storm, sending them both sprawling. There was a shout, a gasp, and then the unmistakable sound of steel biting into flesh. Ariel staggered, then fell to his knees. A crimson bloom spread from beneath his ribs, soaking through the white. His face twisted in pain, but he did not fall — not yet.
Zelaira screamed his name, crawling to him, her hands already searching for the wound.
Morvane, breathless and limping now, took one last look at what remained of his war and vanished into the fog, clutching his ribs as he ran.
Zelaira pulled Ariel close. His skin was cold. His breath shallow.
"No," she whispered. "Stay. Please, Ariel, stay."
Her fingers glowed with the softest light, trembling with the last drops of the magic she had saved. It poured from her palms into him, thin as morning light, barely enough to hold him here. But she gave it all. Even if it meant she would never cast again. Even if it meant she would fall too.
He opened his eyes.
A single tear slipped down her cheek as he looked at her, alive.
Not whole, but alive.
In the distance, the mountain groaned. The Ice Fountain still pulsed, not with strength but with slow surrender. And deep within its heart, Eryndor stood at the edge of everything.
His hands were pressed to the crystal that once gave power to kings and monsters alike. His eyes were closed. His lips moved not in speech, but in prayer. Not to any god, but to memory itself.
The fountain was not just water or light. It was time. And now, it drank from him.
Visions spilled into his mind like river tides.
He saw Seriane, dancing in the orchard of their youth. Her laughter rang through golden light. Then the orchard burned, and he saw her die again, blade to her chest, eyes locked on his.
He saw Vareon, before the madness. Standing tall, proud, uncertain, then weeping with blood on his hands. A brother betrayed, a warrior undone.
He saw Morvane, kneeling at a grave marked by no name, whispering to ghosts, promising revenge, promising resurrection. And then Morvane walking through fire, turning his back on the very families who once called him kin.
And then, farther still, Eryndor saw the war before the world was carved.
Three thousand years ago, the Watchers and the werewolves stood side by side against the Consumer — a hunger that could not be reasoned with, only chained. The Ice Fountain was the key to that chain. Not merely a spring, but a seal. A breath held by the earth. The cave, destroyed now, had once kept that breath hidden. With it gone, the power moved to him.
He saw the Hollow Waste burning in a vision of what would come. Fields turning black. Moons falling from the sky. The Consumer waking.
And the Seer, cloaked in shadow, whispering lies into the ears of kings.
He cried out, but no sound escaped. The vision held him, bound him, buried him in truth. And still, the fountain asked more. It wanted not his blood, but his becoming. To merge with him. To make him its vessel.
Eryndor opened his eyes. They shone silver, then blue, then something older than both.
He had not yet died. But the line was fading.
He knew now what must be done. And he knew the Watchers would come.
They would come with swords and lies and desperation.
They would come to stop what was already in motion.
He turned his face upward, toward the broken sky.
And he waited.