The sun, still uncertain of its right to exist, rose blood-red above Elarion. It had been weeks since the Council's fall. The city that once shimmered like a prayer now smoldered like a secret.
Across the great square, new banners hung — white sigils of flame embroidered on black cloth. The Order of the Faithful had claimed what remained of the holy citadel. At its head rode High Inquisitor Valen Thorne, his armor dulled by ash, his eyes as hard as obsidian.
He no longer prayed. He only commanded.
"The queen has fallen," Valen declared before the gathered soldiers. "But her shadow remains. It wears mortal skin and walks the lands, defying the heavens. Until that heresy is purged, no dawn shall ever be pure."
He raised his hand toward the east. "We march."
The army moved like a tide — banners snapping, boots striking rhythm with the toll of the sun's first bells. Behind them, the holy towers rang hollow, as if mourning the world they had lost.
Far beyond their march, in the ruins of Vareth, Seraphyne and Lyssara had built a fragile refuge.
They lived quietly, away from the gaze of both mortals and gods. The queen's divine radiance had dimmed; she could walk among shadows now without shattering them. Lyssara tended a small garden by the temple gate — flowers born from the soil where Seraphyne's tears had fallen.
Sometimes, they spoke little. Other times, they spoke of everything — the stars, memory, the strange ache of being alive.
"Do you miss it?" Lyssara asked once. "The power, the worship?"
Seraphyne smiled faintly. "I miss the silence between prayers. The moment when the world forgot me long enough to breathe."
Lyssara reached for her hand. "And now?"
"Now," the queen said, "I am learning to breathe too."
But the peace could not last.
At twilight, Iren Vale arrived at the temple, his face pale and frantic.
"They're coming," he said. "Valen's army — thousands strong. He carries the relic of flame. He means to burn what remains of you both."
Lyssara felt the air leave her lungs. Seraphyne only closed her eyes, the faint light beneath her skin flickering like a candle in the wind.
"It seems eternity never forgets," she murmured.
Lyssara turned to her. "Then we run."
But the queen shook her head. "If we run, the world will only chase our shadow. If we stay, perhaps it will see our truth."
Lyssara gripped her hand. "He'll kill you."
Seraphyne looked at her — truly looked — and smiled with quiet grace. "Then let him try."
The night before the army arrived, the two of them stood together beneath the broken roof of the temple. The stars above burned unevenly, as if the heavens themselves were watching.
Lyssara leaned against her, her voice soft. "You shouldn't face him alone."
"I have never been alone," Seraphyne said. "Even when the world forgot my name, love remembered."
Lyssara pressed her forehead to hers. "Then let love fight too."
And Seraphyne — once the goddess of eternity, now something gentler, something infinitely more dangerous — whispered:
"Then let love be my final faith."
By morning, the Inquisitor's banners darkened the horizon.
The sky turned red again — not from the sun, but from fire.
And in the heart of the ruins, the Eternal Queen waited, standing among the flowers born from her tears, her wings unfolding like the memory of dawn.