The Purgeborn advanced, their forms flickering between light and fire, eyes like burning halos. The air rippled with ancient magic — the kind that sought to erase mistakes, to purify what it could not control.
Seraphina's heart pounded, but it was no longer from fear.
It was the child.
A heartbeat within a heartbeat.
A pulse of power that surged from her womb and shot through her limbs like lightning in water.
She stepped forward, one palm outstretched. "You will not touch this child," she whispered. Her voice carried, not loud but absolute — like the hush before a storm.
The leading Purgeborn hissed. "You carry the Unbalanced Flame. Its birth would shatter the Cycle. Surrender."
Seraphina shook her head. "No. This child is not a mistake. It is the turning point."
The first blow came in a flash — a golden lance hurled at her chest. But before it could pierce her, a wave of energy erupted from her body, forming a barrier of glowing dusk and dawn light — warm rose and soft indigo, like morning and twilight made solid.
She blinked in shock.
Ravon's eyes widened too. "Seraphina… your aura…"
She was glowing.
Not just with magic — with something older.
From her back, luminous wings of shimmering twilight unfurled, not angelic nor demonic, but something divine. Her hair lifted as if caught in unseen wind, and her skin shimmered with the markings of her bloodline and something new — glyphs pulsing with life and prophecy.
Ravon stepped beside her, blade ready. "We fight together."
Seraphina smiled — fierce, radiant, reborn. "No. We rise."
Then chaos erupted.
Ravon launched forward in a blur, his sword clashing against a Purgeborn's spear with the force of colliding worlds. The air split, the tower trembling with every strike. He fought with the fury of a demon lord protecting his queen, blades spinning with deadly precision.
Seraphina lifted her hand again, and the ground beneath the enemies cracked open with vines of glowing flame — fire that breathed, as if alive. It twisted around the Purgeborn, burning not flesh, but judgment, turning their righteousness against them.
One screamed, wings disintegrating into ash.
They weren't ready for her. For this power. For the flame that was not destruction — but creation.
The battle raged, magic flaring, walls melting, the night sky beyond the tower glowing with distant storms.
And then, from the shadows behind the shattered archway—
A figure appeared.
Clad in silver armor etched with starlight, face hidden behind a hood of woven moonlight.
He lifted a staff crowned with a broken crystal.
"The child must live," he said. "And I have come to ensure it."
Ravon growled, not trusting. "Who are you?"
The silver-clad figure stepped into the crumbling chamber, his voice calm amid the storm.
"I am the Watcher of the Cradle," he said. "And this battle… is only the beginning."
He looked to Seraphina—right into her soul—as the last of the Purgeborn crumbled into ash.
Then he whispered, as the wind died around them:
"The child you carry will awaken the Gate… but it will also decide which realm burns."