Years passed.
Not days. Not weeks. Years.
The war had long since ended. The breach sealed. The Fold stabilized.
But the ache never did.
Keal’s name remained carved into the Hall of Flame, just beside the brazier where Seraphina had once declared war. Yet none dared call him a martyr. He wasn’t dead.
He was missing.
Nyra stood before the brazier now, taller, her face matured with grief and wisdom. She wore the mantle of command, but it never sat comfortably. Not without him.
Zaire stood silently beside her, watching her light the same flame each year on the day of his disappearance.
“It’s been ten,” she whispered.
Zaire nodded. “I know.”
Elsewhere in the stronghold, Seraphina limped. Her flames burned lower now—not from weakness, but restraint. Her power was intact, but her joints
