The further north they traveled, the more the world seemed to unravel. Forests thinned into skeletal groves. Rivers ran black with silt. The wind howled like a wounded beast across endless plains. Yet the sky above them remained startlingly clear, as though the heavens had chosen to watch their journey with unblinking eyes.
Eira felt it constantly—the pull. A thread tied to her heart, tugging her closer with every mile. It wasn't just Nyx. It was older. Deeper. A resonance that called to the part of her that had been chosen, or cursed, to be the key.
Lucien rode close beside her, silent most of the time, but his hand brushed hers often—small touches that tethered her to the present when the pull threatened to sweep her away. He never asked how heavy the burden was. He only stayed.
Valtherion led them without faltering. His tall figure seemed carved from the very shadows of the land, yet his steps were purposeful, almost reverent. His silence was not the silence of indifference, but of memory. He knew what lay ahead. He remembered.
And it terrified him.
The First Storm
On the seventh night, the storm came.
Winds ripped through the barren plains, carrying knives of ice and ash. Lightning split the heavens, searing the earth with white fire. They found shelter in a jagged outcropping, huddling close to a meager fire that sputtered and hissed against the gale.
Eira pressed her cloak tighter, shivering as much from the voice in her head as the cold outside. Nyx whispered in the storm, her voice threaded into every clap of thunder.
You cannot bind what you are. The key was never a gift—it was a chain. A chain you will drag until it breaks you.
Lucien caught her trembling hand. "Eira. Look at me."
She met his eyes, stormlight flashing in the green of them. His grip tightened, steady and grounding. "You're not her," he said. "You're not anyone but you."
Something broke in her chest at his words. Tears stung her eyes, hot and sudden, but she held them back. "I'm trying," she whispered.
Valtherion's voice cut across the storm, low and grim. "Do not forget—keys open both ways. If she cannot bind Nyx, Nyx may bind her."
The Blood Memory
That night, when the storm finally lulled, Eira dreamed again.
She stood in a hall of mirrors, each reflecting not herself, but countless versions—warrior, queen, monster, martyr. Some wore crowns of fire, some bore chains of shadow, others bled endlessly into oceans of red.
At the far end of the hall, one mirror glowed. She stepped closer and froze
The woman in the glass looked exactly like her. Not older. Not younger. Her. But her eyes were wrong—burning with gold fire, her expression carved in cold, merciless serenity.
"You are me," the reflection said. "And I am what comes when you break."
Eira's throat went dry. "No. I'm not you."
The reflection smiled, cruel and tender all at once. "Not yet."
The mirror shattered, and she woke gasping in Lucien's arms.
Confessions by Firelight
Lucien stroked her damp hair, whispering her name. "Eira, it's alright. It was a dream."
She clung to him, unable to stop the tears this time. "What if it's not just a dream? What if it's true? What if I'm—"
"You're not," he said firmly. "You're not a monster. You've fought harder than anyone I've ever known. You've chosen, over and over, to protect, not destroy."
His voice cracked then, softer. "Even when you had every reason to give up."
She looked up at him, his face etched with exhaustion, his eyes raw and open. "You believe in me more than I believe in myself."
"I have to," he said, his forehead resting against hers. "Because if I lose you, Eira… there's no world left worth saving."
She kissed him—fiercely, desperately, as if anchoring herself to the present, to him. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, steadying her against the storm inside.
Valtherion watched from the shadows, his face unreadable. But when he turned away, the faintest flicker of sorrow crossed his features.
The Mountain of Bones
By dawn, the storm had passed, leaving the world washed in pale light. And on the horizon, the mountain rose—a jagged titan of black stone, its peak lost in mist. At its base sprawled ruins older than the Hollow Heart, carved in patterns that bent the eye and unsettled the soul.
Valtherion stopped, his gaze fixed on it. His voice was heavy with memory. "The birthplace of the bloodline. The sanctum of Nyx."
Eira's heart pounded as she stared at the mountain. The pull in her chest was almost unbearable now, as though invisible hands were dragging her forward.
Lucien moved closer. "Are you ready?"
Her answer came like steel, though her voice trembled. "I don't know if I'll ever be ready. But I'll go anyway."
The First Ascent
They began the climb. The ground shook beneath their feet, as if the mountain itself resisted their approach. Shadows coiled in the air, forming half-shapes—soldiers of mist, whispers of the First King's legions. Their eyes glowed faintly as they closed in.
Lucien drew his blade. Valtherion's hand fell to his own, his presence radiating deadly calm.
Eira reached for her pendant, its light burning against her chest.
For the first time, she didn't feel like prey.
She felt like fire waiting to be unleashed.