Two Weeks Later
The sun had returned—but it brought no celebration.
Winds swept gently over the island, cooling the scorched earth. Ash still clung to broken stone and twisted branches. In the village centers, Edenites worked with quiet determination—repairing walls, planting new crops, gathering the names of the lost. There were no songs. Only the murmurs of the living, and the groans of a land still healing.
Along the shoreline, near the cliffs of northern Salem, two figures stood over a fresh burial.
Amariah's body, wrapped in woven silk and surrounded by the carved stones of her tribe, had been laid to rest in a solemn ceremony. Abinadab knelt by the grave, head bowed, one hand pressed against the sand. His voice was low, nearly inaudible.
"Your fire was too bright for this world, Amariah" he whispered. "May the sea carry your anger, and the earth hold your peace. May you rest in the heart of the Founders and the island."
A breeze answered him.
---
Back in the central villages, the healing quarters buzzed softly.
Dorcas moved among the wounded, her hands glowing faintly with soft green light. She knelt beside a boy missing a leg, gently applying a poultice before pressing her palm over his wound. His cries turned to whimpers, then sleep. She wiped her brow and turned to the next.
At the far end of the chamber, in a sealed alcove lined with Edenite crystal, David lay propped against soft pillows.
His right arm and leg were gone, burned away by divine fire—but something strange had begun to grow in their place. Not flesh. Not metal. A fusion of both. Regenerative starlight flickered beneath translucent skin. His fingers twitched, slowly reforming like vines guided by memory.
Elira sat beside him.
She hadn't moved much in days, only ever to tend to his bandages or answer the healers' questions. Her eyes never left his face.
He stirred.
She straightened. "David?"
His eyelids fluttered. "Did I die?"
She exhaled shakily, managing a smile. "Not today."
He blinked. "She… was going to kill me."
"You saved her," Elira said. "She saved you, too. In her way."
---
Elsewhere, the palace corridors were quiet again.
Rex walked slowly toward Mariah's room, steps heavy. He paused just before the door.
Her maid, Elira's sister—Serah—stood in front of it, arms crossed. "She's resting," she said gently.
Rex frowned. "I need to see her."
"She hasn't slept well. But today, she asked to rest… alone."
He lingered, the tension in his jaw tight.
Finally, he nodded.
As he turned to leave, Serah whispered behind him, "She misses him."
Rex stopped for a breath—but said nothing—and walked away.
---
Inside the room, Mariah stood by the window.
She hadn't slept.
Her long golden hair lay undone down her back, her robe heavy around her. Her belly had grown—the child within her growing stronger, closer. She reached toward the door—but found it locked.
"Serah…" she whispered, pressing her forehead against the wood. "Please."
No answer.
She turned back into the room, stepping slowly to the mirror.
She didn't recognize herself anymore.
Eyes pale with storms, skin still holding the faint glow of divine wrath. Her hands trembled—not from weakness, but from the memory of what she had become.
Of who she had lost.
She sank to the floor beside the bed, hands on her belly.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the child within. "I didn't want you to know this part of me."
A tear traced down her cheek.
"I didn't want him to see it either…"
The room fell silent.
Then a distant roll of thunder whispered in the sky.
Not a storm. Just an echo.
And somewhere, far beyond her locked door, the wind carried her words out into the morning—
"I miss you."
She tries until she uses the cotton hanging on the window to jump down into the courtyard. The landing is rough—her knees buckle—but she doesn't stop. Pain shoots up her side, but the urgency drives her forward. She darts toward a narrow passage, heart thundering. At the end of it, a road gleams under the moonlight, flanked by guards in dark armor.
She stops, crouching behind a pillar. Her mind races.
Think. Move.
She picks up a loose stone, tosses it hard toward the barracks. The clatter echoes. One guard turns. Then another. She throws a second object—her pendant, wrapped in cloth—farther, toward the torches. A soft thud. Then flame. A cry. Both guards rush to check it.
Now.
She slips past them like a whisper, her breath sharp in her throat. The road curves upward to the heart of the palace—the sacred throne of the Founders.
The great doors creak as she pushes them. Inside, the air is still. Reverent. At the far end, two thrones sit in solemn silence—one massive and firm, marked with elemental carvings: Rex's. The other, more slender, etched with moonlight symbols—hers.
She approaches Rex's throne, fingers trembling. With a practiced motion, she grips the right handle, tilts it back slightly.
A click.
Stone shifts. The floor behind the throne shudders and a hidden panel slides open, revealing a staircase that spirals downward into darkness.
She doesn't hesitate.
She steps in, the entrance sealing shut behind her with a low hum.
Only torchlight from the walls guides her descent now—each step taking her deeper into what even legends dared not whisper.
---
Heavy rain began to fall as Mariah stepped through the hidden path, the cold drops soaking her hair and robe. The stone walls gave way to open sky as she emerged onto a hill overlooking Eden. Below her, the island lay shrouded in mist and shadows. Thunder rolled across the heavens like a warning.
She moved carefully, her feet pressing against the slick, jagged rocks. She slipped once—nearly tumbling—but caught herself. Her breath came quick, her hands scraped and bleeding, but her resolve remained unshaken.
The trail led her to the very heart of the island.
The lake.
Ancient. Sacred. The place where she and her family became the Founders. Where power was awakened in blood and water, and destiny had first been whispered.
She dropped to her knees at the lake's edge. Rain rippled across the surface. She leaned forward and drank, the cold water stinging her lips and tongue, but grounding her. As she sat in the silence, her body shuddered—first from the cold, then from something deeper.
A pain shot through her lower back.
Her breath caught.
Another wave.
Labor.
She gritted her teeth, collapsing to her side. Alone in the storm, lightning flashing above, she screamed—but the island only echoed in reply.
---
Far away, Rex sat beside the Guardian King, quietly speaking of war and peace when the doors burst open. Mariah's maid, breathless and pale, cried out.
"She's gone!"
Rex stood.
"She jumped from the window. The cotton—it's hanging down to the courtyard!"
For a moment, the room fell silent.
Then Rex's heart thundered with dread.
He bolted out, the Guardian King and guards close behind. The rain fell heavier now, drenching their cloaks as they scattered across Eden, calling her name.
---
At the lake, Mariah writhed, her hands gripping the wet earth. Her screams were swallowed by the rain, but the sky responded—thunder crashing, lightning dancing across the lake's surface like a blessing.
And then...
A cry.
A child's first breath.
Mariah cradled him close, sobbing.
Zinco.
The storm howled in triumph, as if the island itself had been waiting for this birth.
Far away from Eden, in the distant coastal Gate, Keth's eyes opened slowly. His body, sealed in shadows, stirred. He lifted his head with a faint smile.
"Welcome," he whispered, his voice echoing through the stone and sea.
---
Rex stopped in his tracks. His heart pulled him like a string—and he understood.
"The lake," he murmured.
He ran.
Through the storm, through mud and stone, his feet knew the way. He reached the lake's edge and froze.
There she was.
Mariah, soaked and trembling, holding the newborn to her chest.
He dropped beside her, tears mingling with rain. Gently, he lifted Zinco from her arms, bathing the child with water from the lake, blessing him in silence.
Then he carried them both—his sister and her son—home through the storm.
---