Darkness.
All Elena could see was darkness.
Her eyelids were too heavy to lift. Her body too cold to feel. Voices called for her, faint and far away, as if underwater.
Where am I?
Why does everything hurt…?
She felt like she was drifting, suspended in a void. Alone. Bleeding and cold.
Then—a light.
Distant. Small. Warm.
It pierced the dark like dawn cracking through a long, endless night. The light came closer, casting soft golden rays over her battered soul. Her fingers twitched, hand lifting ever so slightly as if to reach it.
So warm… so gentle…
She parted her lips to speak, but no sound came.
Then a voice—deep and ancient, neither male nor female—whispered, echoing through the dark like a sacred bell:
"No. Not yet. There is much to do. Wake… up."
Elena gasped.
And fell.
The light above her vanished as she plummeted, faster and faster, down through cold and shadow until-
Her eyes opened.
Pain came next.
A deep, throbbing ache in her back. Her limbs heavy. Her head pounding.
She was… home?
Her eyes fluttered, trying to focus. The familiar ceiling of the Matteo estate's guest chambers met her gaze, but it didn't feel real. She lay face-down, dressed in a gauzy nightdress, skin barely covered. Her back was wrapped in thick bandages, herbs stuffed into every layer. Her wrists stung. Her womb ached.
Why does it hurt so much?
Voices murmured by the fire.
She blinked hard, straining to hear.
"…I don't care. I nearly lost my wife," Seamus growled. "Our child is-"
His voice cracked.
He breathed deeply, trying to find control.
Lady Aurora stood at his side, arms around him, golden hair coiled in a mourning braid.
The estate healer and the Behike watched from nearby. They all stood in firelight, their silhouettes framed in amber glow.
But Elena felt no warmth.
The Behike lowered their head. There was shame in their ancient features.
"For whatever reason… it simply wasn't meant to be. Not this time."
A hush.
"I am so very sorry," the Behike said. "There is nothing we can do."
Elena's heart stopped.
…What?
That couldn't be right. No.
The Saintess wouldn't allow it. Not after everything. Not after what they survived.
Right?
Please… no…
She tried to speak. To call out. But only a soft gasp escaped her.
Seamus turned sharply.
When he saw her eyes—barely open, but awake—his composure shattered. He rushed to her side, falling to his knees beside the bed, taking one bandaged hand in both of his.
Neither of them spoke.
What was there to say?
Her gaze met his—stormy, silver-gray eyes filled with unshed tears, rage, and heartbreak.
Elena's tears spilled silently, sliding down her cheeks and soaking into the pillow. She didn't sob. She didn't scream. The grief settled in her chest like a stone. Heavy. Final.
The healer began explaining something about rest. About recovery. About time.
But Elena heard none of it.
All she could do was look at Seamus, her throat closed around all the words she couldn't say.
And when the pain finally dragged her under again, her last sensation was the faint warmth of his hand around hers.
When she fell asleep, Seamus stood.
His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. His jaw locked.
Then he turned and strode out of the room.
He didn't say a word.
The halls of Matteo estate thundered with his footsteps.
He passed servants and guards who dared not speak to him. Rain still fell outside, streaking the windows like tears.
He burst into his study.
Kenneth looked up, startled mid-conversation. Around the large oaken desk stood a dozen nobles, landowners and old allies, poring over documents and maps.
The flames in the fireplace snapped violently when Seamus entered—his presence like a storm descending.
They all rose to their feet, startled by the sheer force of his expression.
Kenneth stepped forward. "My lord-"
Seamus held up a hand.
Silence fell.
He looked at each person in the room, gaze hard, voice low.
"Be prepared."
The nobles froze.
"I declare war against the Church of Saintess Yidali."
The room didn't breathe.
"If any of you wish no part in this—leave. Now."
Not a single person moved.
The fire crackled. Rain drummed harder against the windows.
His silver eyes flickered, catching the light from the flames. In that moment, fire itself lived behind them—the rage of a man who had lost everything but refused to break.
Seamus stepped forward and dropped the bloodied ceremonial sword on the desk with a clang.
Then, with quiet fury, he sat.
There would be no forgiveness.
No diplomacy.
There would only be reckoning.