The storm came from the east. It rolled over the mountains in silence first, like a beast testing the edge of its cage, and then broke in a roar that shook the valley to its bones.
Lyssara watched from the terrace of her chambers. The air was heavy and electric, the scent of rain thick and sharp. Lightning tore through the clouds, and for a heartbeat she saw the world lit in silver and blood.
Something called to her in that light — something she had not felt since the day Seraphyne vanished into dawn. It wasn't only memory. It was presence.
She gathered her cloak, pulled the hood low, and descended the marble stairs to the courtyard. Servants called her name, their voices lost beneath thunder, but she did not answer. The storm called louder.
Outside the city walls, the roads were washed in light. The fields bowed beneath the wind, and the sky turned red where the lightning touched. Her horse trembled when she approached, yet lowered its head when she laid her hand upon its mane.
"Steady," she whispered. "We go where the world begins again."
She rode until the towers of Elarion disappeared behind her, and still the storm grew. The rain stung her skin, cold as steel, but she did not slow. She felt it—the pull beneath her ribs, the thread that tied her soul to another's. It had never broken. It had only slept.
Hours blurred into night. When the storm finally began to quiet, she found herself at the edge of a valley she did not know. The air shimmered faintly, like heat over sand, though the rain still fell.
In the distance, a single white tree grew from the center of a dark lake. Its branches glowed, bending beneath the wind, and every flash of lightning made it appear alive—breathing, watching.
Lyssara dismounted. The water at the lake's edge was warm, luminous. When she touched it, ripples of light spread outward, and she heard it again—her name, whispered from somewhere beneath the surface.
"Lyssara…"
The sound was fragile, like a memory trapped in glass.
She stepped into the water. It rose over her boots, then her knees. The lake seemed endless, but she could see the roots of the tree below, pulsing faintly with silver light.
When she reached the trunk, she laid her hand against the bark. It was smooth, like marble, and warm to the touch.
"Seraphyne," she whispered.
The branches shivered. The light flared. And then a voice answered—not from the tree, not from the sky, but from everywhere at once.
"The world is changing again."
Lyssara's heart stopped. "Where are you?"
"Between the breath of light and the last dream of darkness."
The surface of the lake rippled. Slowly, a shape began to form within it—a reflection that was not hers. A face, pale as moonlight, eyes closed, lips parted as if caught between sleep and prayer.
"Seraphyne…"
"I cannot hold this shape for long," the voice said, fading and returning in waves. "The heavens are breaking. The void calls me back. You must not come."
Lyssara sank to her knees in the water. "I can't lose you again."
The light around the reflection trembled. For a moment, the eyes opened—silver and infinite.
"Then remember me, when the sky falls. My love will find you again in what comes after."
The wind rose, tearing through the valley. The white tree cracked like thunder, and the vision shattered with it. The lake went dark. The voice was gone.
Lyssara stood in the silence that followed, drenched and shaking, staring at her reflection in the black water.
Only one word remained on her lips.
"After."
She did not yet know what it meant, but she knew she would find it. Whatever storm awaited, whatever world would rise when this one burned—she would find her again.
The first light of dawn broke through the clouds, painting the wet earth gold. Lyssara mounted her horse once more. The wind was cold, but in her chest something new burned—a fragile, defiant warmth.
The world was breaking. But love was waking with it.
And Lyssara rode toward the storm.