Magic does not shatter like glass.
It unravels like silk.
And that's what the Order of Veiled Saints began to do.
Their aether chants tightened around Selene and Lucien's bond, pulling at the invisible threads between them. Memories flickered—first kisses, shared smiles, whispered promises—all growing thinner at the edges.
Selene stood still in the crimson snow, her cloak pressed close to her throat. She felt the magic gnawing at her, trying to edit her out of her own life.
Lucien felt it too.
The Order wasn't erasing them physically.
They were unraveling their history.
Selene's crimson eyes narrowed.
"We won't let them cut us from memory," she whispered.
Lucien's golden gaze stayed steady.
"Then let's give them something they can't erase."
He lifted his blade, not toward the saints—but toward the sky.
Aether surged through the steel. This was no ordinary sword.
It was a memory-forged weapon, one of the last crafted before the ancient wars. A relic passed down through the Aurelian line, but never used.
Until now.
Lucien whispered its true name under his breath.
"Velorian."
A blade that could slice not just through flesh, but through narrative magic—the kind of spell that rewrote existence itself.
Selene reached for her own power—not a sword, but her bloodline gift.
The Crimson Veil.
It had been dormant for years, locked beneath seals to avoid detection. But now she shattered those seals with a single breath.
Her eyes burned brighter, twin crimson flames beneath the snowfall.
And suddenly the Order's chants faltered.
Because the Crimson Veil wasn't just beauty—it was a shield against oblivion.
A defense against erasure.
The air split.
Lucien's sword moved in a perfect arc, golden aether trailing from the blade like fire in the cold.
Selene's magic wrapped around him, crimson threads interlacing with gold.
The Order tried to tighten their ritual, but the spell began to break—cracks forming in the unseen net they'd cast over the world.
The leader of the Order whispered in a voice no human ear should hear.
"This is forbidden."
Selene stepped forward, her voice soft but sharp.
"So was our love. But here we are."
Magic collided.
Not like lightning, not like storms.
But like pages tearing from a book—fragments of history scattering in the wind, rewritten and remade.
In the end, Lucien's blade struck first.
Not at the Order's bodies, but at the aether web connecting their spell to reality.
He cut it clean.
The chanting stopped.
The spell shattered.
Selene's magic sealed the breach, wrapping her bond with Lucien in crimson and gold.
For now, they were safe.
But the Order did not fall back.
They simply stood in the snow, veils fluttering, empty eyes stitched shut beneath silver thread.
"This is not over," the leader whispered.
Lucien's sword dripped with golden light.
Selene's gaze stayed calm.
"We know."
The Order faded into mist, leaving no footprints behind.
But their threat lingered.
The rebellion had won this battle—not with armies, but with memory and love.
And the world would not forget that.
Above them, the crimson snow still fell.
Soft.
Endless.