Lyra refused to meet the Guardian's gaze. She had watched him become something beyond human, had felt the shockwave of his oath crush her lungs and shatter the last illusion that he might still be hers. But the realm did not care for heartache; it only demanded more.
They had fled the cavern, the echoes of Aldric's death still clinging to their hair like ash. Now, in the ruined chapel at the edge of Ashmoor, Lyra spread map after map across the broken altar. The stained glass overhead had long since collapsed, leaving only the iron ribs of its frame—like the bones of a broken god.
"The rifts are accelerating," she said, her voice hardening into the tone of a strategist. "Two opened in the east this morning. One swallowed a tower. The other swallowed a family." Her jaw clenched. "I tried to close them, Ka—" She stopped. "Guardian. But your oath binds the lattice. I'm only patching what you already mend."
Sir Gareth paced the aisles like a caged lion. "Then we strike at the origin," he growled. "Someone or something is forcing the Shadowlands through. A mage. A cult. A traitor in the court. Name the enemy, and I'll take his head."
"You cannot kill a storm with steel," the Guardian said quietly. His voice carried no warmth now, only the gravity of distant thunder. "But storms are born from pressure. Break the hand that squeezes, and the clouds disperse."
Lyra's hands hovered above the parchment, fingers twitching as if reading arcane braille. "There's pressure here," she whispered, pointing to the Thornspire Range. "A place called the Echoing Vale. It's an old battleground. The earth remembers grief there. The Shadowlands feed on grief."
"We all do," Gareth muttered.
They moved at dusk. The Guardian did not walk so much as glide, reality parting around him like a curtain. Birds refused to sing as he passed. Lyra felt the hollow ache inside her widen with every step, as if the rituals she once used to quiet her mind now only amplified the silence he left behind.
Halfway to the Vale, fate found them.
A column of riders emerged from the treeline, armor bearing the sunburst of the Royal Sigil. At their head was a woman Lyra recognized instantly—Lady Seraphine Valis, High Inquisitor of the Radiant Throne. Once, she had been Lyra's mentor. Now, she was the Crown's most zealous hunter of forbidden magic.
"Lyra Vexhart," Seraphine called, reining in her stallion. Her voice was a blade wrapped in silk. "By decree of His Majesty, you are charged with consorting with an unregistered entity and tampering with foundational wards. Surrender, and you will be granted a merciful trial. Resist, and you will be purified."
Gareth's gauntlets creaked. "Try it."
Lyra's throat closed. Seraphine's eyes, once soft with pride, were glacial now. "You taught me to channel pain," Lyra said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "But you never taught me what to do when pain becomes the only thing that answers."
The Guardian stepped forward. The horses whinnied in terror, backing away as frost crusted the grass. "High Inquisitor," he intoned, "the realm is dying. You waste time chasing ghosts while the wound festers."
"And you," Seraphine replied, "are either its cure or its poison. Until I know which, you do not walk free."
Lightning split the horizon. In that flash of white, Lyra made her choice.
She whispered a single word, a forbidden syllable that unraveled the seam between this moment and the next. Time jolted. The world held its breath. Chains of light blossomed from Seraphine's gauntlets, arcing toward the Guardian.
Lyra severed them.
The explosion threw everyone to the ground. When the dust cleared, Seraphine was on one knee, eyes blazing—not with anger, but with something that almost looked like sorrow.
"You always had potential," she said softly. "I did not want to be your enemy."
Lyra's heart cracked. "Neither did I."
Behind them, the Vale began to sing—a dirge that only the dead should hear. The Guardian lifted his head, and for the first time since the oath, Lyra saw a flicker of pain in his eyes. Not divine pain. Human pain.
It hurt worse than any spell she had ever cast.