The flight from the Obsidian Peaks took them north and west, hugging the edge of the Ashen Wastes until the blackened earth gave way to rolling hills scarred by old battle lines. Thorne kept low—wings cutting through low clouds to avoid imperial patrols. Elara rode cradled against his chest, the new Eternal Resonance humming between them like a shared heartbeat. She could feel his fatigue in the slight tremor of his wings, the way his breath hitched every few minutes. She could also feel the warmth of his resolve, steady and unyielding.
They landed at dusk in a shallow ravine lined with thorn-choked ruins—an abandoned waystation from the days when the Empire still pretended to care about its borders. The stone walls were cracked, vines claiming what wind and fire hadn't taken. A small spring bubbled in one corner, clear enough to drink.
Thorne set her down gently, then shifted back—wings retracting with a pained roll of his shoulders. The tear in his membrane had mostly healed, but fresh scars crisscrossed his back like a map of every battle he'd refused to lose.
Elara pulled a strip of cloth from her pack (salvaged from a wrecked skiff) and dampened it in the spring. "Sit," she ordered softly.
He raised a brow but complied, lowering himself onto a fallen beam. She knelt behind him, pressing the cool cloth to the worst of the scars. He hissed through his teeth.
"Still hurts?" she asked.
"Less than it should." He glanced over his shoulder. "Your resonance is doing most of the work. I can feel it… knitting things back together."
"Good." She worked in silence for a moment, then: "We need a plan. The capital—Veilhold—is fortified like nothing I've read about. Walls three times the height of normal city ramparts, echo wards that detect unregistered souls, Sky Legion barracks on every tower. And the Emperor's palace sits on the Final Throne itself. If he's already claimed the Third Node…"
"He's not just holding it," Thorne finished. "He's using it. Feeding the Devourer scraps to keep it docile while he prepares the full ritual. We have maybe days—maybe less—before he shatters the seal entirely."
Elara's hand stilled on his back. "Then we don't storm the front gate. We go in quiet. Find allies inside the walls. Someone who hates the Emperor enough to risk everything."
Thorne snorted. "You mean rebels? The last real resistance was crushed a decade ago. What's left are ghosts and opportunists."
"Not all of them." She moved to sit beside him, meeting his eyes. "Isolde's memories are clearer now. There was a secret order—the Veilwardens. They guarded the Binding nodes before the Empire co-opted them. Some went underground when the Emperor rose. If any survived, they'd be in Veilhold. Hidden. Waiting for a true Anchor to reappear."
Thorne studied her. "You're betting our lives on fairy tales from a dead queen."
"I'm betting on history." She touched the crown mark on her wrist. It glowed faintly in response. "And on us."
He exhaled, then reached for her hand—lacing their fingers. The resonance flared softly, warm and reassuring.
"Fine. We head for Veilhold at first light. There's an old smuggler's tunnel under the eastern wall—forgotten by most, but I used it once, years ago, when I was still pretending I could outrun my curse." His thumb brushed her knuckles. "But if we're doing this, we do it smart. No heroics until we know the board."
Elara nodded. "Agreed. First priority: intel. Second: allies. Third: disrupt the ritual before he finishes it."
A distant howl cut the night—imperial hounds, far off but searching.
Thorne tensed. "They're widening the net. Mirael's report must have reached the palace."
Elara stood, offering him a hand up. "Then we move faster than they expect."
He took her hand, rising. For a moment they stood close—foreheads almost touching.
"No dying on me, historian," he murmured.
She smiled—small, fierce. "Same goes for you, Prince."
They gathered what little supplies they had: water, a few salvaged rations, Thorne's blade, Elara's dagger, and the faint but growing power of their linked echoes.
As the moon rose, they slipped deeper into the ravine, following a narrow game trail that would eventually lead to the Shadow Road—an ancient, half-collapsed highway said to run beneath the hills straight toward Veilhold's underbelly.
Behind them, the wind carried the faint, ominous toll of distant bells from the capital.
The Emperor was waiting.
And so was destiny.
[End of Chapter 9 – To Be Continued...]