The mist thinned into silver threads, unraveling to reveal a figure waiting at the far end of the path.
Long hair shimmered like amber in the pale light, and her eyes glowed as though they held fragments of distant stars.
It was Allara.
Prava froze. Her breath faltered, her pulse a fragile echo inside her chest.
Memories rose—of fear, of wounds still aching, of battles fought in shadows.
Yet along with them came the quiet truth: without Allara, she might not have survived at all.
Rafael stepped forward, instinctively positioning himself between them.
His gaze was steady, protective, though not laced with hatred.
He watched Allara carefully, searching the silence behind her eyes.
For a long moment, Allara said nothing.
Then her voice came, softer than Prava remembered, frayed with exhaustion.
"I did not come to fight. I came to tell you the truth."
The word truth struck like a key turning in an old lock, prying open the ache that Prava had tried so long to seal.
"The darkness you face," Allara continued, lowering her gaze,
"it was never born from one person alone. It is a bond… that has bound us from the very beginning."
Rafael's brows furrowed. "A bond? What are you saying?"
Allara's breath shook as she confessed,
"My blood, and your ties—it is the same fate.
The wound that scars me is the wound that threads through both of you.
From the start, we were never separate."
Silence fell heavy, like the hush before a storm.
Prava's knees weakened as the truth sank in.
The pain she thought was hers alone—the brokenness she carried—
was not hers to bear in solitude.
It was Rafael's. It was Allara's.
Her vision blurred; tears slipped free.
When she turned, Rafael met her eyes with a small, steady smile.
A silent vow: Whatever this truth means, we face it together.
Allara stepped closer, cautiously, until only a breath of distance separated them.
Her eyes met Prava's—no longer burning with hostility, but reflecting the same wounds,
as though one mirror faced another.
"I ask only for a chance," Allara whispered.
"Not to erase the past. Not to be forgiven.
But to walk beside you—to create something new out of what was broken."
Prava closed her eyes, drawing in a trembling breath.
When she opened them again, her hand rose, slowly, hesitantly—
until her fingers reached for Allara's.
Their touch quivered—fragile, uncertain.
Yet in that fragile contact lay the first thread of acceptance.
Rafael stood in silence, watching,
his heart heavy with both caution and hope.
Behind them, the bridge groaned softly,
as if the world itself bore witness to the bond being woven anew—
not of the past's shadows,
but of three hearts converging toward a single path.