A storm with no clouds rattled Nightspire from turret to crypt that morning—thunderous booms echoing through the obsidian bones of the palace while the sky itself remained an unbroken violet sheet. Ravan called it echo‑iron, the palace's way of warning its sovereign of hidden threats. To me it sounded like a restless heart, beating faster as the full‑moon deadline crept nearer.
I had no time to waste on fear. Instead, I marched to the Grand Atheneum with Calia at my heels and the Blind Archivist guiding us by the whisper of his cane. Nightspire's library looked unchanged—shelves of bone, floating tomes, lantern orbs—but tension crackled between scrolls like static.
"We must know everything about star‑iron," I told the Archivist. "Its origins, its forging, its weaknesses—if any."
He inclined his head, silk bandage over sightless eyes shimmering. "The shelves anticipated your query." At his gesture a trio of books drifted down, covers snapping open.
The first, "Chronicles of the Falling Fire," described celestial stones birthed when suns blinked; fragments rained across realms once every millennium. The second, "Canticles of Hallow Smiths," revealed the purification: star‑iron must be washed in priest‑blood at dawn three days running. The third was thinner and bound in cracked leather—its title merely "Costs." Inside, a single line repeated in ink that glimmered silver:
Star‑iron drinks the breath of demons and the hope of mortals.
I shivered. "Any record of it defeating Tenebris before?"
The Archivist traced a page. "Only myths. One speaks of a Celestial Foundry hidden beneath the Surface Realm's Crown City, where mortal kings keep a ceremonial spear—never used, yet polished every generation."
Myron's arrow. Fear coagulated into purpose. "Then we steal or break it before the full moon."
Footsteps rang; Lord Auron emerged from a side aisle wearing travel leathers dusted with frost. "Fortune favors desperate queens," he remarked. "I returned moments ago. Spies confirm the spear rests within the Royal Sanctum—guarded by sigils keyed to the king's blood." He dropped a parchment map at my feet. "I bribed an architect. Corridors, wards, exit tunnels."
I raised a brow. "Your price?"
"Exile," he said simply. "When this ends, neither realm will forgive my treason; grant me safe passage to the Whispering Isles."
"Done," I agreed, sealing the pact with a handshake that left frostbite chill lingering in my palm.
Calia produced a phial of phoenix‑ink. I sketched the map's salient points onto my wrist—faded lines invisible to others, but alive under soul‑fire. "We strike soon," I said. "But first I must survive a lesson."
Ravan waited in the Hall of Confluence, a circular chamber of polished basalt where the floor carved rune channels that glowed at our tread. He stood at the center, shirtless—only obsidian bracers on his forearms. Red sigils pulsed beneath the skin over his heart, echoing the runes around him.
"To forge the twin‑light we saw in the Chrona‑Glass," he greeted, "your power must braid with mine—willingly. Demon shadow and mortal soul‑fire seldom mingle without… casualties."
"I pledged to learn," I replied, unclasping my cloak. Beneath, I wore a sleeveless tunic and breeches—freedom of movement over regal pomp. "Show me."
He drew a shallow line down his palm with a clawed thumb; silver‑black blood welled. "Shadow." He offered a ritual dagger. I nicked my own hand; emerald sparks flickered. "Soul." We pressed wounds together.
Heat roared through veins—neither pain nor pleasure, but an electric third thing that stole my breath. The rune channels erupted, half crimson, half jade. My mind glimpsed fragments: his first coronation drenched in the screams of rival princes; my childhood laughter chasing will‑o'-wisps; his centuries of lonely dusk; my final scaffold breath.
We staggered apart, chests heaving.
"Again," he ordered.
Three attempts later, energy finally twined smoothly—two rivers forming a single bright current. We managed to sustain it several pounding heartbeats before it fizzled, leaving embers swirling around us.
"Better," Ravan said, voice husky.
I wiped sweat from my brow. "One more—"
A shriek ripped down the corridor. The silver sand raven that had delivered Myron's letter swooped through the archway—but mid‑flight it collapsed into glittering dust, the particles spinning, reshaping into a hooded figure clutching a star‑iron dagger.
No hesitation—he lunged at Ravan.
Training vanished; instinct ruled. I thrust my bleeding palm forward, channeling soul‑fire. Emerald arcs slammed the assassin sideways. The dagger scraped Ravan's shoulder in a glancing kiss—enough. Smoke hissed from the cut; his flesh scorched black along the graze.
Ravan growled, backhanding the intruder; star‑iron clanged on basalt. He pinned the assassin by the throat. With his free hand he conjured a lance of shadow, driving it through the hooded chest. The body burst into sand, scattering.
Only the dagger remained—gleaming, poison.
Ravan's knees buckled. I caught him, lowering him to the floor. Veins near the wound pulsed silver; flesh around them greyed, cracking like ice.
"Star‑iron sickness," he rasped. "Spreads swift."
My stomach twisted. "Let me work."
I sliced my palm deeper, pressing it to the wound. Soul‑fire poured from me into him—searing a pathway through poisoned tissue. His skin smoked; the smell of singed cedar filled the hall.
Pain lanced my arm but I pushed harder, weaving shadow memory of our earlier merger: our energies coiling, sharing, balanced. Silver veins dulled, then faded. At last the wound sealed, leaving only a faint scar.
Ravan exhaled shakily. "You risked—"
"I calculated," I said, dizzy but standing. "Cost for cost." Blood trickled down my wrist; I bound it with linen.
He retrieved the fallen dagger using tongs of conjured shadow. "Proof Myron holds more than one spear." His eyes—raging storms. "We must act before he arrays an army of such blades."
"Yes," I agreed, offering my mapped forearm. "I already planned the theft."
A smile flickered despite grimness. "You outpace prophecy."
"Then prophecy should lengthen its stride."
Preparations whirled into motion: I drafted a swift strike team—myself, Ravan (reluctantly, for his wound was fresh), Calia (as spy wrangler), Lord Auron (navigator), and Captain Vael, the winged guard whose runeblade glowed with light‑eater enchantments. The mission: infiltrate Aurelian's Royal Sanctum, seize or destroy the Celestial Spear and any star‑iron stock.
Nightspire's forges gifted us tools: shadow‑cloaks to bend perception, soul‑shackles that suppressed alarm wards, and a crystal vial of distilled eclipse—one drop snuffs any enchantment for sixty heartbeats.
We breached a mirror‑gate at dusk of the third night, stepping from Tenebris gloom into a moonlit crypt beneath the king's palace. Dusty sarcophagi lined alcoves; frescos celebrated ancient victories—many suspiciously demon‑free. Auron guided us through catacomb corridors, disarming sigil plates with cold efficiency.
Halfway, Calia tugged my sleeve. "Majesty—listen."
Faint chants echoed. We crept to a stairwell vent. Peering through lattice stone, I saw a candlelit hall where priests in golden robes circled the Celestial Spear—taller than a man, its head a wicked leaf‑blade that glittered star‑white. They anointed it with blood drawn from their own wrists into alabaster bowls.
"Last purification," Auron whispered. "Preparing for the full‑moon duel."
Ravan's jaw flexed. "We end it now."
Captain Vael unfurled silent wings, gliding across the rafters. He severed the first priest's shadow; the man collapsed. Chaos erupted, but our cloaks wove illusions—soldiers saw only flickers. I hurled eclipse‑vial; darkness swallowed candle flame, plunging room into black.
Soul‑fire bloomed in my fists, guiding me to the spear. Its surface hissed against my power, but I gripped the shaft, chanting a binding litany. Ravan's shadow coiled around my arms, twin energies merging—silver and jade, bright white at the seam. The spear shrieked like metal tortured beyond limit; cracks spider‑webbed.
"Now!" Ravan roared. We wrenched in unison. Star‑iron shattered, blast of light knocking priests against walls.
But fragments still deadly ricocheted. One shard grazed Auron's cheek; another embedded in Vael's wing. Blood spattered marble.
I swept soul‑fire arc to melt stray pieces. When the darkness lifted, the spear lay as glittering dust.
Sirens howled above—palace alarms. Guards thundered.
"Exit!" I commanded. Calia lifted Vael; Ravan hoisted Auron. We bolted to catacombs, illusions fraying.
At the crypt mirror‑gate, silver‑barred ward runes flared, sealing passage. My pulse spiked. Ravan thrust star‑scarred palm against the barrier; his power snarled but wards held.
Footsteps neared. No time.
I pressed my blood‑mapped wrist to the stone floor—architect's tunnels. Trusting the plan etched into flesh, I traced runes, funneling soul‑fire through floor cracks. Stone groaned, sliding aside to reveal a drain‑shaft dropping into darkness.
"Down," I urged. We descended ladders into sewer tunnels smelling of brine and rot. Following map whispers, we emerged miles outside the city, where Nightspire's escort wyrm waited cloaked by shadow mages.
We soared home before dawn.
In the Grand Atheneum infirmary, healers tended Vael. The star‑iron shard pulsed inside his wing like a leech of light. Demon flesh reacted violently; removal meant severing flight muscles. Vael gritted fangs, unwavering.
"Let me," I said. Using micro soul‑stitch, I teased the shard free, encasing it in moon‑salt. The wound hissed but closed cleanly. Vael saluted, tears shining.
Auron's cut less dire, but silver thread in his bloodline made star‑iron poison linger. I mixed phoenix tears in caster oil, staunched infection. He squeezed my hand. "Isles," he reminded weakly.
"One war at a time," I replied.
Ravan watched from doorway, eyes unreadable. When at last Vael slept and Auron sipped potion, Ravan beckoned me to a balcony overhanging lava rivers.
Moon hung half‑full. Five nights left.
"You shattered a relic older than both our crowns," he said.
I braced for anger. Instead he continued, voice low, "You saved my realm again. I have fought centuries with generals; none risked as fiercely."
I met silver eyes. "We're not finished."
He brushed hair from my temple—a gesture gentle as snowfall. "No. But prophecy shifts." He showed his palm; scar from dagger faint now, pulsing jade like soul‑fire. "Our merge left mark on me."
I turned my hand—his shadow etched faint silver across my lifeline. "And on me."
A hush enveloped. Lava reflected in his eyes like twin suns. He leaned closer—but before breath could mingle, a raven‑shaped shadow streaked across sky, exploding into letters of molten gold:
"FULL MOON ADVANCES UPON ECLIPSE. THREE NIGHTS. PREPARE OR PERISH."
Magic fireworks, king's signature.
Ravan cursed softly. "He bends astronomy with stolen relics."
I gripped balcony rail, knuckles white. "Then we have three nights to craft a counterstrike."
Ravan stared at the lava rivers, mind already forging. "Star‑iron dust remains from the spear. If reforged in Nightspire's Sunken Forge and tempered with twin‑light, we could reverse its polarity—an arrow to shatter his own arsenal."
Hope flared. "I'll harvest the dust. You prepare the forge."
He nodded, pride and peril intertwining in his gaze. "Rest first, Leora."
"Rest later." I strode back toward the infirmary. Three nights—enough for creation or destruction. Every step echoed with the palace's storm‑heart thunder.
Star‑iron had drunk my emperor's blood once. Next time, it would drink the betrayal of a mortal king.
And dawn after the eclipse would belong to whoever wielded the brighter blade—one forged of demon shadow and soul‑witch fire, bound by covenant not of final breath, but of shared, unyielding will.