The ceremony melted into dusk, and torches guttered against the broken citadel as freshly-formed Concord prepared itself for the coming stern travel. No crown was given, no throne sat, but something deeper had been traded—accountability.
Later, Kael sat alone on the edge of a broken parapet, legs dangling above the cliff-scorched precipices of the ancient Seat. The Void within him was quiet. Not silenced… but listening.
A figure walked along beside him.
Elira, barefoot, her uniform not raiment but functional storm-gray tunic, trailed silently behind. Her hair was pulled back, but strands flew loose in the gusts. The mark beneath her collarbone glowed still—a scar of the bond, of what they had endured, and what they had become.
"You were thinking hard enough to wake the stars," she said.
Kael smiled faintly, gaze fixed on the horizon where fractured Leylines sparked faintly, still trying to mend themselves.
