The morning didn't feel like a beginning.
It felt like something had paused—and was waiting to resume.
The sky above Dominion was overcast, but not gray. It was the kind of pale-gold hue that hinted at magic gathering behind clouds, like a breath being held across the entire continent. The trees in the distance bent just slightly too far, as if bowing to something unseen beyond the horizon.
Outside the northern gates, the loading grounds had been cleared.
No carriages. No supplies.
Just twenty students in deep-toned cloaks arranged in uneven formation—half eager, half uneasy, all silent.
Instructor Naeris Dorne stood before them, wrapped in her scale-lined coat of midnight plumage, tall and unnervingly still. She didn't speak immediately.
She rarely did.
The wind stirred dust around her boots.
Then she lifted her hand—slowly, purposefully.
And her voice came not loud, but absolute.
"Today," she said, "you will not tame. You will not command. You will walk."
Her eyes passed over the students like a blade deciding where to land.
"And if something waits… you may be seen."
Some students flinched.
A few tried to hide it.
Naeris tilted her head—not disappointed, but almost… amused.
"Beasts do not answer to pride," she said. "They answer to presence. They do not bend to dominion. They bend to rhythm. Today, you do not go to conquer. You go to listen. If you are lucky, something will listen back."
Nyra stood toward the edge of the group, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
She wasn't afraid.
But something was already stirring.
Her branded wrist tingled.
Not sharply. Not painfully.
Just… pulsing.
As if the skin remembered something before her mind did.
She rolled her sleeve higher.
The mark was glowing faintly—not enough for others to see, but enough that she felt its warmth bleeding upward toward her elbow like a hidden tide.
A whisper moved across her senses—not sound. Not thought.
Sensation.
Come.
Her breath hitched.
"You feel that?" Riven asked from behind her left shoulder. He didn't sound playful this time. Just focused.
Nyra didn't turn. "Yes."
Seraph stepped up beside them, her silver-white cloak fluttering like trailing moonlight. Nyx's energy pulsed beneath her skin like a taut wire, visible in the sharp edge of her jaw.
"It's not calling to everyone," Seraph said.
"It never does," Nyx added.
Naeris lifted her hand again.
The sigil on her wrist flared. A slow arc of soft emerald light curved into the forest ahead—into a path where no path should be.
The Emerald Verge.
A borderless stretch of ancient woods that Dominion claimed to own but never mapped. Every time someone tried, the map changed. The trees shifted. The land remembered differently.
"Move with awareness," Naeris said. "Do not speak unless it speaks to you first. If you return, bring back what cannot be taught."
That was the only instruction.
And then she stepped aside.
And the students began to walk.
Nyra didn't wait.
She slipped past the rest like mist moving through a battlefield—quiet, invisible, inevitable.
As her boots touched the Verge's edge, the mark on her wrist flared.
A single pulse.
The world tilted.
Just slightly.
Like reality blinked.
She didn't look back.
Riven narrowed his eyes.
"She's moving differently."
"She's not moving," Nyx said. "She's being pulled."
Seraph's breath steadied.
"Then we follow. Just not too closely."
Without asking permission.
Without calling attention.
They cloaked themselves—moonlight illusion and blood-borne shadow—and stepped into the forest, trailing just behind.
Within the Verge
The trees changed fast.
One moment, they were standard dominion-grown evergreens, thick-limbed and towering.
The next—they were wrong.
Their bark shimmered like oil in moonlight. Their leaves fluttered silently in a wind that didn't exist. The deeper Nyra moved, the more the forest felt like a memory trying to wake up.
The air was thick. But not heavy.
It was waiting.
Roots curled in spiral patterns. Some glowed faintly beneath her steps, pulsing with starlight. Flowers—soft as breath—shifted color when her exhale touched them. Blues turned violet. Violets turned gold.
Come.
The whisper again.
This time, it wasn't a call.
It was a knowing.
She wasn't being summoned.
She was being welcomed.
She pressed forward.
The forest grew stranger.
Mist gathered. Not like fog—but like velvet. Heavy. Lush. Breathing.
She stepped past a tree older than architecture and saw it:
A ripple.
Not a beast. Not a form.
A presence moving through the trees like light caught in water.
It had wings.
Silver. Vast. Not solid—but echo-shaped. A mirage that shimmered even in stillness.
She stopped.
So did it.
And then—
A voice.
Not spoken.
But heard.
"You are not ready to touch me."
"But you may see where I once rested."
Nyra didn't ask who it was.
She already knew.
Nairavel.
Or… something tied to her.
Maybe a part left behind.
Maybe just a footprint in the world.
The ripple moved again, curling through space without touching it—then passed through a veil.
Not a wall.
A curtain of air.
Barely visible.
Impossible to describe.
Nyra stepped forward.
Her mark pulsed.
The veil parted.
And she walked through.
Behind her, the path closed.
Seraph and Riven paused mid-stride as the light bent and blocked.
"Well," Nyx muttered, glaring at the ripple of magic, "isn't that just perfect."
"It's reactive," Seraph said, examining the barrier. "It responds to blood."
"Of course it does. She gets a private mystical portal while we get a glowing 'no entry' sign."
Riven crossed his arms.
"So what now?"
Seraph stepped back.
The forest shimmered again.
And then—
Split.
Two new paths unfurled.
One shadowed in obsidian petals. The other glowing with glass-moonlight bloom.
Seraph looked at Riven.
He smirked.
"Separate tests. Always fun."
"We'll meet on the other side," Seraph said.
"If we survive."
Nyx grinned. "You wish me luck."
"I wish you'd shut up and walk."
And deep inside the veil, Nyra kept walking—
Toward something sacred.
And older than memory.
Nyra didn't remember the moment the world changed.
She just knew it had.
Somewhere between stepping through the veil and breathing in the strange mist that clung to her ankles, the forest stopped feeling like a place and started feeling like a memory—one that wasn't hers.
The air was dense but not suffocating.
It pulsed softly around her body, brushing along her arms like threads of silk caught in windless motion. Light came not from above but from within—soft blooms of silver-green radiance that floated lazily above strange flowers and coiled roots.
The deeper she walked, the quieter everything became.
Not silent.
Just... listening.
Even her footsteps made no sound. The earth accepted them, soft as breath, without a single crunch or break.
The sigil on her wrist pulsed again.
Once.
Then again.
A steady rhythm.
Like a heartbeat.
Only it wasn't hers.
It was the forest's.
Or something buried within it.
Come.
It was never spoken. But it was felt. Like someone had left the shape of a voice in her bones.
She pressed forward.
The trees changed first.
They were no longer straight or familiar. Their bark shimmered, like stone polished with oil and flecked with tiny starlight. Some glowed faintly when she passed, as if reacting to her aura.
Others bent—not out of the way, but toward her.
Curious.
And every step felt like she was sinking deeper—not into mud or terrain—but time.
This forest did not grow.
It remembered.
Nyra paused near a tree with bark like etched obsidian and touched it.
The moment her fingertips met the surface, the tree sang.
Not aloud.
But into her.
A brief hum of warmth.
Then silence again.
But she could feel it now—dozens of presences.
Eyes that weren't eyes.
Not hostile.
Just aware.
Just watching.
"What are you?" she whispered.
Something stirred overhead.
She didn't look.
She didn't want to see it before it was ready to be seen.
She passed a stream—but there was no water. It looked like light had melted and pooled in the crevice of the earth. Mist floated just above it, and when she breathed it in, her mark pulsed again.
Harder this time.
Come.
But this time... it wasn't calling from ahead.
It was beneath.
The terrain tilted subtly downward.
She stepped onto stones that shimmered beneath her soles.
Petals bloomed in her shadow—moonlight-colored with veins of burning silver.
Every footstep carried weight she couldn't measure.
Somewhere beyond the fog, she felt it.
Something vast.
Not in size—but presence.
It didn't approach.
It waited.
That was more terrifying.
Nyra's hands flexed, and her flames responded—but not with fury. They licked up her arms in slow, graceful ribbons—no heat, no pain. Just acknowledgment.
Even her fire understood this place was not for dominance.
It was for reverence.
Then she saw it.
A ripple in the air—like heat above metal.
Only silver.
It hovered just ahead, between two wide-bent trees whose trunks touched like joined hands. The ripple pulsed with the same rhythm as her wrist.
She stepped closer.
And it spoke.
Not aloud. Not even inside her.
But around her.
"You are not ready to touch me."
"But you may see where I once rested."
Nyra exhaled.
"Nairavel."
The ripple didn't answer.
It didn't need to.
She stepped through.
And the world bent.
She wasn't pulled.
She wasn't forced.
She simply entered.
The moment she passed through the ripple, every sense realigned.
Her ears rang. Her breath caught. Her heart slowed—but didn't weaken. Her body felt lighter—but not weak. The world took a breath with her.
And opened.
She stood in a clearing.
But no clearing had ever looked like this.
The trees here curved into a high dome, their bark translucent and veined with shifting nebulae. Vines draped from the upper canopy—threaded with glass-colored blooms and dew like captured starlight.
The ground wasn't grass.
It was petal-soft moss that glowed faintly beneath her steps.
And in the center—
A nest.
Not crude.
Not wild.
A spiral woven from starlight feathers, bone-thread, and strands of arcbark.
It shimmered.
Breathed.
It remembered her.
Nyra froze.
Because in the center of the nest—
Three creatures stirred.
Not fully grown. Not newborn either.
They looked up.
Eyes like shifting galaxies—deep nebula swirls pulsing with soft hues of violet and teal. Their wings curled close—molten dusk folded into crescents, veins etched with memory-light.
They didn't growl.
They didn't blink.
They simply watched her.
And just behind them, in the shadows of the glade—
Something larger.
Curled like a mountain waiting to unfold.
Nairavel's mate.
Its body was a fortress of translucent crystal—its horned skull carved like an ancient weapon. Its armor pulsed softly with living memory—layers of time, emotion, and recognition stitched into every scale.
It didn't move.
But she felt its attention lock onto her.
Not physically.
Spiritually.
She was not prey.
Not friend.
Not heir.
Just... known.
Nyra stepped forward.
Slowly.
Her flame dimmed at her wrists.
Her chains retracted.
She lowered herself into a kneel.
And whispered:
"I'm not your heir."
"But I carry her fire."
The younglings watched.
Then turned.
And slowly—without fear—vanished into the deeper trees.
Their steps made no sound.
But they left warmth behind.
A trust.
A knowing.
She didn't move.
Not for a long time.
She just stayed there, kneeling, her mark pulsing softly against the moss. Her breath even. Her aura still.
This wasn't about claiming power.
It wasn't even about legacy.
It was about remembrance.
Nairavel wasn't here.
But her silence was.
And in that silence—
Nyra found a piece of herself she hadn't realized was missing.
The glade was too quiet to be peaceful.
It didn't sing.
It didn't breathe.
It waited.
And in that waiting, Nyra felt the dread bloom.
Not the kind that screamed.
The kind that watched.
Like a predator buried beneath a lullaby.
She stepped toward the nest.
And with every footfall, her blood got louder.
Not faster.
Louder.
Her heartbeat echoed like a war drum in a cathedral.
The forest didn't resist her steps. It welcomed them. Not with joy—but with memory.
The moss glowed faintly where she walked, flaring in silvery outlines that shimmered around the edges of her boots before fading again.
Her branded wrist burned.
Soft at first.
Then deep. Twisting.
The flame didn't surge.
It uncoiled.
Like it knew it was in the presence of something that wouldn't tolerate theatrics.
Nyra bit the inside of her cheek.
Hard enough to draw blood.
She welcomed the pain.
It made her feel human.
The Nest was coiled in the middle of the glade like the center of an impossible storm.
Woven bone-thread spiraled upward into a crown of silence. Each length was etched with curved celestial runes and fine cracks like it had been grown rather than built.
She could smell the decay of something old.
Blood that had dried centuries ago.
It clung to the base of the spiral—subtle, metallic. It didn't reek.
It warned.
Like a sword wiped clean—but never forgotten.
Nyra stepped closer.
Her boots touched blood-laced petals.
They curled under her step like wounded wings.
And in the nest—
They stirred.
Three.
Not large. But not small either.
Their necks unfolded first—long, serpentine, glistening with fine scales that shimmered beneath their fur. Their fur was soft black and silver-gray, almost like feathers, rippling over bone armor along the spine.
Their eyes were the worst part.
Nebulas.
Swirling, endless, silent.
Staring through her.
And then they rose—shoulder blades flexing.
Wings unfolded.
Not symmetrical. Not perfect.
One had a wing half torn, regrown with shadowlace membrane. Another's claws were cracked, blood still drying at the tips.
These were not untouched children.
These were young beasts born of war and rebirth.
They did not growl.
They did not blink.
They watched.
Behind the nest, something moved.
No sound. No growl.
Just weight.
A shifting of air so subtle it pushed into her lungs.
She turned.
And saw him.
Nairavel's mate.
The Titan.
His body was coiled around the edge of the glade like a mountain sleeping with eyes open.
Not eyes—crystals.
Embedded across his skull, each one glowing with pulsing memory.
His jaw was thick, too wide, etched with battle-worn cracks and a maw full of jagged fangs too long for silence.
His horns curled upward, then back—almost blade-like—each ring carved with symbols Nyra's blood reacted to before her mind did.
His chest plate was semi-translucent.
Beneath it: runes. Bone-seared and still bleeding light.
He had been torn open.
Healed.
And torn again.
And he did not rise.
Because he didn't need to.
He was the glade.
Nyra dropped to one knee.
Not in reverence.
In respect.
And survival.
Her fire dimmed on command.
Her chains uncoiled behind her—hissing against the moss, but not striking.
The feathered aura of the nest tightened.
"I'm not your heir," she said aloud. "But I carry her fire."
Her voice didn't shake.
But her fingers curled into fists against her thighs.
The pain helped.
Something inside the nest shimmered.
The three younglings moved.
One stepped forward.
Close enough for her to smell the faint, acrid burn of voidfire clinging to its wing.
Another flared its nostrils and huffed—hot mist billowing from its snout.
Then the last one—larger, horned—tilted its head.
And all three turned.
Slipped into the trees.
Soundless.
But not gone.
The beast—the mate—watched her the entire time.
She could feel his heartbeat like a seismic drum buried beneath her bones.
Not rushing.
Not angry.
Just… awake.
"Why are you still here?" she whispered.
No answer.
But her mark flared.
A shape formed on the moss beside her.
Not written.
Burned.
A brand. The same as hers.
Faint. Matching.
"You marked her," she said slowly, "before she left."
Another shift.
A low, cavernous exhale. Steam curled from his nostrils.
That wasn't air.
That was memory.
He had loved Nairavel.
Fought with her.
Bled for her.
And when she vanished—
He stayed.
Not to wait.
To guard.
This place. These children. Her memory.
Something rippled above.
A feather drifted from the canopy.
Silver. Long. Glowing faintly.
It spun.
Descended.
And landed on her shoulder.
She didn't touch it.
Just sat.
Still.
Breathing.
Watching.
And slowly—
Smiled.
A broken one.
A real one.
Because for the first time in her life, she realized:
She didn't need to prove she belonged to the fire.
It had always known.
She was Flameborne.
When Nyra passed through the veil, the world didn't thunder.
It sighed.
Like something ancient had finally drawn breath after years of holding it.
And then she was gone.
No trail. No shimmer of magic. Not even the ghost of footsteps.
Just nothing.
Like the forest had swallowed her whole and decided it didn't need to explain itself.
Riven stood at the edge of that silence, one step too late, one question too full of venom to speak aloud.
His hand hovered in the space she had just walked through.
The air was warm. Too warm.
Not welcoming.
Warning.
He pressed his fingers forward.
And the air bit him.
Not magic.
Intention.
A clean, blade-line slash arced across the top of his palm. Thin. Shallow. But deliberate.
He hissed through his teeth.
"The hell—?"
Behind him, Seraph was already stepping forward. Calm. Controlled. The white of her cloak caught on a low-hanging branch that glowed faintly, then recoiled like it had been burned by moonlight.
Nyx surfaced in her expression—a single scowl twisted at the corner of her lips.
"Perfect," she snapped. "Of course she gets a secret gate wrapped in legacy and glitter. And we get... a paper cut and divine middle finger."
Riven looked at the blood on his hand. It shimmered—just for a second—like the forest had tasted it.
And rejected it.
"It didn't attack," he muttered. "It refused."
"That's worse," Nyx growled.
"No," Seraph corrected softly. "It means she didn't force her way in. She was expected."
Nyx spun. "Oh, spare me the prophecy poetry."
"She didn't steal the flame," Seraph said, her voice steady. "She was remembered by it. That's different."
"No," Nyx said, stepping forward until they were eye to eye. "That's dangerous."
"So is being forgotten," Seraph replied.
And just like that, the forest shifted again.
Not with noise. Not with motion.
With awareness.
The trees leaned inward.
Moss pulled back like peeling skin.
And two paths emerged.
One on Riven's side—jagged with black petals dripping silver sap, the air curling with thin strands of poison vapor that danced like smoke snakes in the underbrush.
One on Seraph's side—lined with glowing shards of moonglass, alternating pulses of light and shadow falling from branches like soft rain suspended in time.
Both paths were narrow.
Both waited.
"Two doors," Riven said.
"Two choices," Seraph replied.
"Two chances to get swallowed whole," Nyx added, stepping beside her with crossed arms. "Because nothing about this place offers clarity or comfort. It offers correction."
Riven touched the wound on his palm.
It had already stopped bleeding.
"So what's this then? Redemption? Judgment?"
"Ritual," Seraph said.
"Real fun word you got there."
"You want the softer one?"
"Not really."
"Then stop stalling."
Nyx looked between the two paths.
The air whispered—inaudible, but tight.
Every breath came thinner now, like the forest had grown tired of waiting.
Riven snorted. "Guess this is where we split."
Seraph didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
They stepped toward their paths.
And the moment their boots touched the new ground—something changed.
The world contracted.
Sound dropped.
Color dimmed.
And then—two new corridors bloomed open, both impossibly long, both lined with symbols older than language.
Nyx tilted her head, her voice suddenly lower.
"They knew we were coming."
"They always do," Seraph said. "They just wait to see if we're worth answering."
Riven's Last Words Before the Forest
He turned, one final glance cast back toward the veil Nyra had vanished into.
"Don't die in there, flame girl," he whispered.
"I still owe you a kiss you won't walk away from."
Then he turned.
And vanished into the dusk.
Seraph's Final Thought
The moonlit path before her pulsed like a slow breath.
Nyx surfaced with a sharp inhale.
"You really think something on the other end of this sees us?"
"No," Seraph said.
She reached for her spine—touching the place where her power always pooled first.
"I think it knows us."
And just like that, the forest consumed them both.
But it didn't swallow them.
It prepared.
RIVEN'S PATH – "What the Poison Remembers"
The forest narrowed behind him. The light disappeared completely.
This path was darker. Not in shadow, but in intent. The air here felt thicker—not just with heat, but with weight.
The trees were obsidian-thorned, and the ground was littered with black petals that hissed when he stepped on them. Each footfall echoed like it shouldn't. Like it was being remembered wrong.
"Come on," Riven muttered. "I didn't walk into a tomb to get judged by damn plants."
He pressed forward.
The thorns grew more twisted. The air turned slick—like breathing mist made from old venom.
His branded hand started to pulse.
Silver light crawled up his forearm.
Not glowing.
Burning.
But he didn't stop.
And then the clearing opened.
A perfect circle. The petals here bled silver.
And from the center of the shadows, something moved.
Slow.
Serpentine.
Massive.
Its body slithered into view—long, runed with sharp sigils carved into its flesh. Its eyes flickered like dying stars—sunken, luminous, and ancient.
The Duskcoil Leviathan.
Riven didn't flinch.
He met its gaze.
"I'm not here to tame you."
The Leviathan's body circled him once—its presence thick, oppressive. He could feel his blood reacting. Not his magic. His blood.
It hissed.
A thousand voices in one, none of them kind.
But not hostile either.
"You carry venom," it said inside his mind. "But you are no predator yet."
"Try me."
The Leviathan surged—and its fangs sank into his palm.
Not deep.
Just enough.
He grunted but didn't scream. Didn't pull back.
The pain wasn't sharp—it was knowing.
He felt his memories ripple.
Not fade.
Leak.
His mother's voice, screaming as the flames took her.
His first kill, shaking and proud and disgusted.
Nyra's laugh—bare, broken, rare.
The Queen's offer. The blade he didn't take.
The one he almost did.
It saw all of it.
Tasted all of it.
Then released.
And vanished.
Not into the woods.
Into him.
A coil of ink-black smoke wrapped up his arm and settled into his shoulder like a brand.
And the mark it left?
A coiled sigil of dusk and silver.
It didn't mean ownership.
It meant exchange.
"Told you I was venom," Riven whispered, flexing his fingers.
His blood still burned.
But the memory that returned to him wasn't pain.
It was clarity.
And the faint hiss in his mind that would never quite leave.
SERAPH & NYX – "The Mirror and the Flame"
The path for Seraph was unlike anything they'd ever seen.
Glass petals floated through the air, slow and delicate, each one humming with a pitch just on the edge of sound.
Moonlight shimmered across the path—but it flickered.
Shadowlight pulsed behind it.
One light. One dark.
Breathing together.
Just like them.
Nyx surfaced first, tense, hands twitching at her hips.
"This is too quiet."
"It's listening," Seraph replied softly.
"To what?"
"Us."
They stepped forward.
The field widened into a dome of crystal leaves.
And there, at the center—
The Twilight Shardling.
Its body was split—not unevenly, but perfectly.
One side glowed with soft moonfire—gentle pulses of iridescent light. The other bled shadow-smoke, darker than night, pulsing with quiet intent.
Its eyes were mismatched.
One pale silver.
One pure black.
It didn't roar.
Didn't move.
But it began to sing.
Not words.
Not language.
Just resonance.
A deep, unplaceable harmony that pressed into both of them at once.
It wanted something.
Not surrender.
Symmetry.
Seraph stepped forward.
Nyx bristled.
"You trust that thing?"
"It's not trust," Seraph said. "It's recognition."
"You always say that."
"Because we were never meant to fight each other."
"No," Nyx whispered. "We were meant to fight as each other."
They walked forward—together.
And the Shardling lowered itself.
No threat.
No test.
Just invitation.
Seraph and Nyx moved as one, pressing a palm to each of its flanks.
Their magic surged.
Silver fire on one side.
Shadow ink on the other.
And the sigil that bloomed across their spine—
A mirrored flame, two halves pulsing in perfect, echoing rhythm.
The Shardling's body lit.
And so did theirs.
But it wasn't pain.
It was acceptance.
Nyx blinked.
"I thought we'd have to fight."
Seraph smiled faintly.
"We did."
Nyx smirked. "Yeah. But this time... we didn't fight each other."
They returned one by one.
Not because they meant to.
But because the forest let them go.
Twilight smeared the sky in bruised gold and indigo by the time Riven emerged first from the Verge.
His hood was down, his eyes hollow but burning. The silver sigil that now coiled along his left forearm wasn't visible at first—until he flexed his fingers and the skin beneath shimmered like dusk turned liquid.
He didn't walk like someone who had won something.
He walked like someone who had survived himself.
Seraph and Nyx stepped out together.
No words.
Just movement.
Their cloak was slightly torn, their breathing even, their aura humming in two contrasting chords that somehow pulsed as one.
The sigil across their spine glowed briefly when they passed beneath Dominion's outer flame-wards.
Nyx broke the silence first.
"Well... we didn't die."
"We were never supposed to," Seraph replied.
Nyx rolled her eyes, but her hand lingered at her back—where the Shardling's warmth had touched.
Riven turned toward them as they reached the overlook outside the Outlier Dorms.
"No Nyra?"
"Not yet," Seraph said.
Nyx glanced back toward the forest with a twitch in her jaw.
"Of course she takes her time. Probably sipping fire tea with godbeasts and unraveling star-threads while the rest of us get clawed by ancestral trauma."
"We made it back," Seraph said calmly. "That's what matters."
Riven didn't respond.
But he was watching the trees.
Carefully.
Instructor Naeris Dorne stood near the edge of the overlook, her arms crossed, her eyes glowing faintly beneath her hood.
She said nothing.
But the faint nod she gave them held more weight than a hundred praises.
"You walked the forest," she finally said. "And returned bearing silence."
She stepped toward Riven, eyes scanning his mark.
"Not bonded. Entwined."
To Seraph/Nyx:
"Not chosen. Reflected."
Then she turned back to the trees.
"The forest doesn't grant power. It remembers who it lent it to first."
She walked away without another word.
And no one stopped her.
Nyra appeared just after nightfall.
Alone.
But not untouched.
Her aura moved differently now.
Before, her fire had danced—quick, lethal, unpredictable.
Now it glided.
Like it had remembered the rhythm of something older than breath.
She stepped through the Dominion threshold in silence, her chains barely brushing the stone underfoot.
Seraph turned first.
Her eyes widened.
Riven whistled low.
"You look like a comet just kissed you and told you its name."
Nyra didn't answer.
But her gaze flicked skyward.
A faint breeze swept over the overlook.
And drifting from the canopy—
A single feather.
Silver.
Long.
Glowing faintly.
It twisted slowly in the air.
Nyra reached up.
And caught it.
No effort.
No awe.
Just acknowledgment.
The kind of touch that didn't claim something as yours.
The kind that said:
"You were never forgotten."
"She's watching," Nyra whispered.
Riven raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
Nyra looked down at the feather in her palm.
Smiled.
Not softly.
Not gently.
Sharply.
"The one who left the flame."
Some beasts cannot be bonded.
Only remembered.
And some bloodlines do not call to power—
They call it home.