Life had begun to return to something resembling peace.
The weight of war, death, and prophecy no longer pressed against every breath Anastasia took. The skies over Varethia were clearer now. The air was softer. Birds sang again in the mornings, and laughter echoed in the distance.
And yet, some wounds did not heal with victory.
On a quiet afternoon, Anastasia walked alone to the hillside tombs, the wind whispering gently through the tall grass. She wore a simple cloak, her eyes dimmed with grief rather than power. In her hand, she carried three white roses.
She stopped before three small stone markers—weather-worn but lovingly maintained.
Seraphina. Aurelia. Elysia.
Three souls who had once laughed beside her, trained beside her, dreamed beside her.
She knelt, her fingers brushing
