The forest trembled as the earth began to hum—a low, unnatural vibration that sent birds fleeing from their branches and startled the horses tethered near the lake.
Lucien was the first to move.
"Circle formation," he commanded, voice sharp, no longer the man who kissed Eira beneath the crimson moon. He was the king again—sharp-edged, cold, and carved from ancient war.
Eira stood beside him, her pulse thundering in her ears. The fire within her was lit now, more stable than before, responding to her will without wild flares. She gripped her dagger, eyes scanning the shadowed trees.
They came crawling from the mist.
Not like the smaller, hunched Veilborn they'd faced before. These were taller—bipedal. Half-shrouded in flesh, half in smoke, as if the Veil itself had wrapped around malformed skeletons and given them breath. Their eyes were a hollow gold, like dying stars.
"Hold," Lucien said, raising his hand.
There were five of them at first.
Then ten.
Then twenty.
"Are they multiplying?" Lyselle hissed, conjuring a shield of violet energy around the group.
"No," Kairen muttered. "They're merging."
Eira squinted into the fog, and her stomach turned. The creatures weren't just standing—they were writhing, twitching, combining. Flesh folded into smoke, and smoke into bone, until what stood before them was a single towering creature with three skulls and a tangle of rib-like arms protruding from its back like a monstrous crown.
It screamed—a sound like glass shattering inside her mind.
Eira dropped to her knees, hands over her ears. Lucien grabbed her, shielding her with his body as he bared his fangs. The world was spinning, and yet he stood like stone.
"What the hell is that?" she gasped.
Lucien's voice was grim. "A Wretch of the Deep Veil. Something that shouldn't exist this far from the border."
The creature charged.
Lucien's blade ignited with black fire as he met the beast head-on, their clash sending a shockwave through the clearing. Sparks flew. Steel met bone. And still the Wretch did not slow.
Ravien moved to flank it, slicing through one of its rib arms. Lyselle hurled bolt after bolt of searing light, while Kairen shifted fully into his wolf form and tore into its leg.
But it wasn't enough.
The beast slammed its arm down, knocking Ravien across the clearing. Eira rushed to his side, pressing her hands to the bleeding gash on his side. "You're going to be fine."
He coughed. "Remind me not to follow your gut next time."
"Deal."
The creature roared again, and Lucien staggered back, blood on his mouth. His sword was in pieces. Eira's heart clenched.
He's not healing fast enough.
She stood, ignoring the fear pounding through her. "It's drawn to me," she said aloud. "It wants me."
Lucien turned sharply. "No."
"Yes," she insisted. "We've seen it before—my blood, my soul, whatever it is… it draws them. That means I'm the only one who can distract it long enough for you to strike."
Lucien's eyes burned with protest. "I won't let you—"
She stepped toward the beast.
"Then don't let me die."
And she ran.
The creature shrieked and followed, stumbling after her like a blind god, smashing trees aside with every step.
Eira's feet pounded the earth, her lungs burning. When she reached the edge of the clearing, she turned—and flung out her hand.
Light erupted.
Not fire. Not flame.
But something older. White-hot and holy. The beast screamed, reeling as parts of its smoke-like flesh burned away. It staggered forward, maddened, reaching for her.
Lucien was there in a blink.
He came from behind, rising from the shadows, both hands glowing with blood magic. He slammed them into the creature's chest, whispering words in a language Eira couldn't understand.
The creature convulsed—and then imploded into a storm of ash and shrieking wind.
Silence returned like a falling curtain.
Eira collapsed, barely conscious. Lucien caught her.
"You reckless, brilliant fool," he muttered, pulling her into his arms.
"I told you I'm not afraid," she whispered.
"You should be."
He carried her back to the firelight as the others regrouped. Ravien limped beside Kairen. Lyselle supported herself on a staff of arcane energy, her skin pale and slick with sweat.
They survived.
But barely.
That night, the fire burned low. Everyone slept in shifts—except Lucien. He sat beside Eira, watching her chest rise and fall. When her eyes fluttered open, she saw him looking at her with something raw in his expression.
"I can't lose you," he said, voice hoarse. "You understand that?"
"You won't."
"You don't know that. You don't know what's coming."
Eira sat up slowly, reaching for his hand. "No, I don't. But I do know this: you've lost people before. And it scarred you. But I'm not a memory, Lucien. I'm here."
He turned his palm and interlaced their fingers.
"You are," he whispered. "You are."
There was no kiss. No dramatic declarations. Just that moment—quiet and sacred—as the blood moon dipped behind the horizon and the first rays of dawn crept across the sky.
And in that moment, Eira knew something without question:
She wasn't just part of a prophecy.
She was the flame that could rewrite fate.