Night gathered slowly in the Darkwood.
The sky beyond the canopy deepened from violet to black, and the forest lights rose like embers, drifting through the trees. Each glowworm, each flicker of bioluminescent moss, seemed to breathe in time with the forest itself-as though it, too, understood what was about to begin.
At the edge of the clearing, the four mages moved in ritual. Maelor drew symbols into the soil with the end of his staff; Selune whispered into bowls of water until they shone like polished mirrors; Roran's fire formed a ring of low flame that hummed without smoke; and Isolde's wind wove through them all, a single unseen thread tying element to element.
Beyond their circle, Elyon stood watching. Her cloak hung open, the silver embroidery catching stray sparks from Roran's fire. The glow traced the pattern of old sigils-signs she had once feared and now wore openly.
Footsteps approached from behind her.
William stopped at her side, silent for a moment as he looked at the ritual taking shape.
"They're binding the Sanctuary's heart to you," he said quietly. "A tether. So the forest can find you wherever you stand."
She nodded. "It will need to. If we fail, it must remember how to heal."
The two of them stood there, the distance between their shoulders narrow, the air carrying their shared breath.
"When I was a boy," William said, "my father told me a story. About a wolf who fell in love with the moon. Every night he would chase her across the sky, but she was too far. So he howled until his voice broke, and the sound became the wind."
Elyon looked at him. "And the moon?"
"She kept rising. But she listened."
For a heartbeat, the forest seemed to still.
Then she said, softly, "I used to dream of the stars beyond the castle walls. I thought if I ever left Nitchgard, I would chase one. Perhaps I did."
He smiled, the expression faint and tired. "You'd catch it, if you tried."
Her hand moved before she could think-resting lightly against his forearm. The pulse beneath her fingertips was steady, strong, real. No crown, no curse. Just him.
"Promise me something," she whispered. "If Petrid takes me-if the magic turns on me-you'll end it."
He shook his head at once. "No."
"You must."
"I won't."
The words hung there, sharp and unyielding. She didn't press again. Instead she said, "Then promise you'll live. Even if I don't."
He drew in a slow breath, eyes on the flame-ring. "I can't promise that either. But I'll promise this: if we survive, I'll walk beside you until you tell me to stop."
Elyon smiled faintly, though her eyes glistened. "That will have to do."
The ritual behind them reached its end. The mages' voices rose together-earth, water, fire, air-woven in an ancient harmony. The forest answered with a low thunder, roots shifting beneath the ground.
Elyon turned toward the sound, feeling the tremor run through her soles, through her blood. "It's awake," she said.
Maelor's voice carried across the clearing. "Then so must we. At first light, we march."
William and Elyon stood a moment longer, neither ready to break the stillness. Then he offered his hand, palm up, not as a prince but as a man who had nothing else to give. She placed hers against it. The contact was small, almost ordinary-and yet the air around them shimmered faintly, as though recognizing the gesture.
The wind moved through the clearing again, lifting the last of the fire's smoke into the stars.