The night sky above Solaria was unbroken—save for the pale silver of the moon. Beneath it stretched the mirror-lake, still and dark, swallowing the stars in silence. On its banks stood a tree older than memory, its roots coiled thick into the earth, its crown spreading wide like a cathedral of branches.
It was here that Anisda landed.
His wings, vast and black, folded back into the cloak that swallowed him whole, and he lowered Thalia gently to the earth beneath the tree's shade. She was limp in his arms, her red hair damp with sweat, strands clinging to her cheeks. He pressed two fingers to her throat, felt the faint flutter of life. Relief softened his jaw for a moment—she lived.
Her lips parted. A breath escaped. A sound, hardly a word, more like a dream's murmur—a chuckle, faint, as if caught in the drifting haze of slumber. Something warm moved in Anisda's chest, something he had thought long buried. He turned from her, kneeling at the lake's edge.
The night was still beautiful, but it was the beauty of a blade: cold, gleaming, merciless. Yainna burned behind them. He could almost hear it if he let himself—screams carried on the wind, the clash of steel, the collapse of stone. His jaw tightened.
"Virvo…" The name burned like venom on his tongue. He had struck him true, a blow meant to kill. And yet the horned man had risen. That power was not natural. Something darker stirred beneath his flesh, something borrowed or stolen. This is no longer a war of men alone.
He turned back to Thalia. Even in unconsciousness she seemed restless—her brows furrowed, her lips trembling with words she could not speak. He crouched close, lowered his voice.
"I know what must be done," he whispered. "But I cannot do it without you. When you wake, Thalia Drale… you must choose. Together we will end this madness."
His words fell into the silence. He leaned back against the roots of the old tree, eyes drifting to the stars between the branches. For the first time in long years, he allowed himself to rest. His eyes closed. Sleep came like a weight.
The dawn did not come with light.
Instead, the world woke in fog. The lake was no mirror now; it was shrouded, its waters veiled, its surface broken only by slow ripples. The sky was a slab of grey, heavy with rain not yet fallen. Birds did not sing. The silence was heavy, too heavy, as though the world itself mourned.
Anisda stirred before the sun had fully climbed. His cloak was gone, lying beside him, and the chill clung to his dark skin. He stooped by the lake, drinking the cold water in his cupped palms, then lingered there, his gaze lost in the fog.
He did not need foresight to know what would follow. Thalia's waking would not bring peace. It would bring grief—grief so vast it would break her bones to bear it. And yet he could not leave her. He would not. She would need someone when the weight came crashing down.
The rustle came first—soft, behind him. A stir of branches. He turned.
She was awake.
Thalia's eyes blinked against the haze. She pushed herself up slowly, her red hair tangled, her armor bent and stained with ash. For a long moment she did not look at him. Instead she curled forward, folding her arms tight around her knees. Her shoulders shook with each shallow breath.
Anisda rose, his steps careful, as though he approached a wounded animal. He knew better than to rush grief. Step by step, he came closer, his voice low, gentled.
She did not hear him.
Her chest heaved once, twice, then the dam broke. She clawed at her own skin, her fingers digging into her arms as though she might tear the pain free. Her breaths hitched, cracked, her throat raw with the effort not to scream. Then she could not hold it anymore.
"No… no… no…" Her voice cracked like glass. She doubled over, clutching herself, the words falling apart. "He's gone—he's gone—they're all gone!"
The last word tore out of her like blood from a wound. She stumbled to her feet, stumbling past Anisda's steadying hand, and ran.
He followed only a step behind, silent, as she fell to her knees at the lake's edge.
There, Thalia broke.
She pressed her forehead to the cold water, her hands gripping the chest of her dented armor, her sobs splitting the quiet. Memories came in waves that drowned her—the warmth of her father's hand on her shoulder, William's crooked grin when he bested her at sparring, the long evenings in the castle halls, laughter spilling like wine. She saw them all. And she saw their end. Fire. Ash. Blood.
The kingdom had fallen. Yainna was no more. And with it, so was the life she had known.
Anisda stood behind her, arms folded, silent. His face was carved in stone, but in his eyes lived something deeper—empathy, yes, but more than that. Recognition. He had seen this pain before. He had lived it, long enough that tears no longer came for him.
Still, he did not leave her.
At last he moved. Slowly, deliberately, as though each motion might shatter her further, he knelt behind her. He laid one hand gently upon her shoulder.
"Hi."
The word was so soft, so simple, it barely stirred the air.
Thalia flinched. She scrambled sideways, her hand raised as though to fend him off. But when she saw him clearly in the grey light—his tall frame, his long black locs falling over his shoulders, his skin dark as polished stone, his eyes like pearls and night sky both—she stilled.
Her breath caught. Recognition struck.
"An… Anisda?" Her voice was hoarse, a question wrapped in disbelief.
For the first time in centuries, he smiled. Not a cruel smile. Not a warrior's smirk. A smile born of gentleness.
"Aye," he said softly. "It is I."