The Order of Veiled Saints did not travel with soldiers.
They arrived with silence.
Gray-cloaked figures gathered at the edge of Aerthrial's northern cliffs, bare feet pressing into snow that did not melt beneath them. Their faces were hidden beneath silver-veined veils, eyes stitched shut—not because they were blind, but because they saw too much.
Selene and Lucien watched from the tower balcony, crimson and gold cloaks fluttering against the frost.
"They've begun the unmaking rites," Lucien whispered.
Selene's jaw tightened.
Aether rippled through the air in long, invisible currents. Ancient magic—pre-kingdom magic—designed for one purpose:
To sever bonds between souls.
To erase forbidden love from existence, not by killing it, but by rewriting history so it never existed.
In the war chamber, Lira flipped through ancient scrolls, her hands trembling.
"I've read about this," she whispered. "The Order did it before. Centuries ago."
Selene's crimson eyes narrowed. "To who?"
Lira's voice barely carried.
"To the Last Bound Monarchs. Two rulers who chose love over duty. They're gone from every book. Every record. There's no statue. No name. Only whispers in forbidden texts."
Lucien's golden gaze stayed cold. "And no one remembers them?"
Lira's throat tightened. "No one was allowed to."
Selene pressed her palm against the frost-laced window, watching the veiled figures below.
She could already feel the pressure of the ritual pulling at the edges of her soul—a strange weightlessness at the seams of her memory, like something sharp was trying to cut her out of herself.
Lucien felt it too.
His bondmark—the golden crest on his wrist—flickered faintly, like a candle in a storm.
The Order's voices rose, soft but lethal.
They did not chant.
They unwove.
Words that reversed oaths.
Whispers that tore through timelines.
Magic that made love into a glitch in reality.
Selene stepped back from the window.
"I won't let them erase us," she whispered.
Lucien's hand closed over hers.
"Then we fight with more than swords."
That night, Selene and Lucien stood in the crimson snow, facing the veiled saints at the cliff's edge.
No army.
No archers.
No banners.
Just two figures wrapped in magic and defiance.
Selene's crimson eyes gleamed as she spoke, her voice steady.
"You will not rewrite us."
The Order's leader tilted their head, veil shimmering.
"You are already fading."
Selene smiled softly, the bond between her and Lucien pulsing brighter beneath her skin.
"Then watch us burn brighter before we vanish."
Lucien's golden eyes locked onto the Order, his voice quiet but unyielding.
"You sever souls because you think love is weakness."
The Order's leader did not reply.
Lucien stepped forward.
"Let me show you what weakness really looks like."
And with that, he drew his blade—not for blood, but for memory.
Because in Aerthrial, some swords cut not flesh, but fate.
And Lucien Aurelian had spent his life learning both.
Above them, the crimson snow twisted into spirals of magic.
The battle had changed.
This was no longer about rebellion.
This was about existence itself.