They reached the Radiant Marches at dawn, where the land rose in gentle swells like the back of a sleeping leviathan. Light pooled in shallow valleys, gilding dew-slick grass and the spires of far-off watchtowers. The Guardian did not slow. He did not tire. But Lyra did, and Gareth wore exhaustion like a second breastplate.
They did not plan to meet Seraphine there. Mercy seldom announces itself.
The Inquisitor stood alone on a low hill, cloak snapping in a wind that had not existed a moment before. No guards. No banners. Only a circle of white stones at her feet and an expression Lyra could not read. The weight of the Crown hung on her shoulders like a chain she had polished herself.
"You defied arrest," Seraphine said. "You assaulted a royal delegation. You unleashed forbidden harmonics in sovereign air." Her gaze flicked to Gareth. "You, a knight of a fallen kingdom, now draw steel for a fugitive." And to the Guardian: "And you, whatever you have become, twist vows into power that should belong to no one."
"Say what you came to say," Lyra replied, softer than she meant to. The wind carried the words away like ash.
Seraphine stepped inside the circle. The stones hummed; a confession ward. "I was wrong," she said.
Gareth froze. Even the Guardian tilted his head, as if the frequency of disbelief required calibration.
Seraphine unclasped her gauntlets. Her hands were human—scarred, steady, trembling just enough to prove she had a heart. "The Court sees shadows and calls them enemies. But I have chased real shadows my whole life. I know the taste of them. What stalks us now is not born of simple heresy. It is older. It is hungry. And it wears my doctrine like a saint's mask."
Lyra felt something inside her splinter, not with pain but relief, which was worse. "Then why hunt us?"
"Because mercy is only mercy if it costs you," Seraphine said. "I needed to know if you would choose the realm over your pride. You did. I will not be your executioner. I will be your shield." She looked at the Guardian, and for a moment, the High Inquisitor bowed. "Teach me the shape of this enemy. Teach me how to break it."
The Guardian's voice softened, almost imperceptibly. "Mercy accepted is mercy returned. But make no mistake, Inquisitor. The path from here leads through ruin. You will lose the Court. Perhaps your faith."
Seraphine's smile was small and tired. "Faith that cannot survive truth is not faith. It is theater."
Thunder spoke from a clear sky. The white stones cracked. The hill split like a calving glacier, and from the wound rose a cathedral of bone and glass—a citadel of the Shadowlands breaching daylight without a rift. Lyra staggered, power surging unbidden. Gareth planted his feet, sword singing.
"Then let theater end," Seraphine said, drawing her blade of light. "And let the war begin."