Nightspire's lowest vaults were older than memory—older, some said, than the first demon who dared call himself king. They lay beneath rivers of molten stone, past tunnels chiseled by lava wyrms, past gates sealed with names that died with their speakers. There, the palace's own heart churned: the Sunken Forge.
Ravan and I descended at twilight on the second‑to‑last night before the forced eclipse. Captain Vael, wing still bandaged, escorted us alongside Calia and two silent hammer‑smiths whose skin glimmered obsidian‑red, as though they carried their own furnace glow beneath flesh.
We crossed a bridge of iron lattice suspended above a magma whirlpool. Heat pounded like drumbeats against skin; the air tasted of copper and sparks. Below, fire spouts roared in lazy intervals, reminding any intruder that creation and annihilation shared the same breath.
The forge itself occupied a crater‑wide chamber lit only by magma glow and floating glyph crystals that pulsed whenever we spoke. Colossal anvils ringed a central dais where a single pedestal waited—on it, a mold shaped like an arrowhead the length of my forearm.
Ravan placed a black obsidian box on a worktable. I flicked its latch: inside lay star‑iron dust we had gathered—half snow‑white, half still glimmering with the spear's stolen light. Each grain thrummed with lethal promise.
"We have the metal," I said. "Now the binding agents."
The hammer‑smiths retrieved bowls of shadow ichor, phoenix ash, and powdered moon‑salt. But one item remained unchecked on the ritual diagram Ravan had sketched in silver chalk across the floor: Vitreum Lacrima—the Tear of the First Empress.
The Blind Archivist had insisted the forge ritual needed it to stabilize twin‑light polarity; without, the arrow might blow our own realm to cinders. Unfortunately, that relic resided in the Mirror Wing, trapped in a shard of the Chrona Glass the first empress had cracked with her sacrifice.
"I shall fetch it," I said.
Ravan frowned. "The mirrors already tasted your blood. If they claim another memory, you may lose more than a year."
"I can't ask a servant to risk what even I fear," I replied. "Besides, the mirrors remember me; perhaps they will bargain."
"I don't bargain with traitorous glass," he growled—but after a moment, he dipped his chin. "Take Vael; Calia will remain and assist me."
I clasped Vael's arm. "Ready?"
He flexed his healing wing. "I owe star‑iron pain. Lead on."
The Mirror Wing seemed narrower than before, as if the palace shrank it to test nerve. Silvered panels pulsed faintly like pupils dilating in dim corridors. As Vael and I passed, my reflections multiplied—some wearing crowns, others bleeding from unseen wounds. One guilt‑vision showed me kneeling beside a fallen Ravan; I tore my gaze away.
At the hall's end, the Chrona Glass obelisk shimmered. A fracture near its base glowed soft blue—the imprisoned Tear. Between us and it hovered the specter of Ravan's former bride, silken tatters drifting as if underwater. Last time she attacked blindly; now her black eyes tracked me with chilling focus.
Vael stepped forward, sword drawn. "You cannot best both of us, wraith."
She smiled, razor‑calm. "Not here to best. Only to bargain." Her voice sounded like glass chimes shattering in slow motion. "A tear for a memory—a fair exchange."
"What memory?" I asked, steeling spine.
"Your final one of him—when the arrow strikes." She gestured; mirror behind her flashed: image of Ravan collapsing, star‑iron shaft jutting from chest. My breath faltered.
"No," Vael snapped. "She manipulates."
I unclenched hands. "If I refuse?"
"Then the tear remains, and your arrow births apocalypse."
I measured the specter—once empress, now fractured malice. Bargaining felt poison, but time bled fast.
A memory perished so far—my seventeenth year. Could I lose a single additional memory? Perhaps a lesser one?
I placed a palm on my chest. "Take my memory of Aurelian's royal gardens in spring. Keep your predicted moment of tragedy."
The specter tilted her head. "Tastes little." She glided nearer, icy scent of lilies and ruin. "But fate savors your courage. Accepted."
She touched my forehead—cold vacuum. A swirl of scent, bloom, laughter vanished; the gardens slipped away forever. Pain pricked but did not cripple.
The Tear cracked free, drifting to my waiting hand—a perfect droplet of glass, glowing internal starlight. I bowed once—to the specter, to the first empress behind her new guise. She faded into mirrors without further word.
Vael exhaled. "Gardens for worlds. Fair."
"Let's make it worth the trade," I whispered.
Back in the forge, Calia sprinkled phoenix ash while Ravan etched runes along the mold. He paused as we entered—relief flashed before he masked it.
I laid the Tear into a silver crucible along with star‑iron dust, soul‑salt, shadow ichor. Ravan muttered incantation; heat from magma pools twisted upward, forming a vortex. The forge anvils chimed resonance.
A surge of raw power hammered my senses. Silver‑white slurry boiled, thickened, turned molten jade shot with liquid moon. The Tear dissolved last, threads of glass weaving luminous veins.
"Now," Ravan ordered, eyes twin eclipses.
We stood on opposite ends of the anvil, grasped tongs of midnight steel, poured alloy into the arrow mold. As it cooled, we pressed hands to opposing sides, channeling twin energies learned in the Hall of Confluence: shadow coursing through my soul‑fire, emerald and silver braiding into searing white.
Pain lanced—bright, sacred agony—as essence bled into metal. I felt star‑iron resist, screaming with the memory of suns dying; I poured more, thinking of scaffold injustice, the children cured by my magic, Vael's wounded wing, Calia's steadfast faith, Ravan's lonely centuries.
The arrow drank everything. When at last the mold hissed silent, we stepped back gasping. The arrowhead glowed pale—neither blinding nor dark, but a soft dawn color that couldn't exist. The shaft was forging next: wood of soul‑cedar, grown only in Tenebris groves watered by midnight dew; Vael prepared it, binding feather‑vanes cut from his own healed wing.
When assembled, the Arrow of Twin Dawn pulsed heartbeat‑slow.
"Beautiful," Calia breathed, tears cutting soot on cheeks.
"Lethal," Vael corrected with pride.
I slid the arrow into an obsidian quiver lined in velvet. Instantly, the palace's echo‑iron thunder ceased, as if Nightspire recognized salvation.
But salvation invites sabotage.
Hours later, while we rested in adjacent alcoves, Duchess Sarielle strode into the forge, escorted by six horned guards in her crest. "Your Darkness," she greeted Ravan with a bow too graceful to be humble. "Court clamors for answers—word spreads of mortals breaching crypts, of you forging clandestine weapons."
Ravan, bone‑weary yet regal, offered curt nod. "My empress forges with me. The court will obey."
Sarielle's gaze flicked to the quiver at my hip. "One arrow to stand against a kingdom. Admirable—if naive." She drew a parchment, presenting it. "Aurelian envoy offers truce; they will destroy star‑iron stock if Tenebris cedes two provinces. I advise acceptance."
Calia hissed; Vael's hand dropped to sword.
"I'll read," I said, taking parchment. The ink of truce shimmered, but underneath a second script only soul‑witch sight could see: "Ravan dies; Sarielle reigns; Leora enslaved."
My stomach knotted. Sarielle plotted with Myron.
I raised eyes, calm. "Your proposition tempts," I lied. "Shall we convene full council at dawn?"
"Excellent." She smiled, lips like cut obsidian. "I shall bring witnesses."
When she left, Ravan exhaled fire. "Sarielle longs for my throne. Now she courts mortal alliance."
"She'll sabotage the arrow before council," Calia fretted.
"We hide it," Vael said.
I shook my head. "We brandish it, but weave a decoy. Let her steal false salvation while we prepare the true shot."
Ravan considered. "Cunning."
The hammer‑smiths forged a replica arrow of ordinary steel dusted with illusion powder. We sealed it in identical quiver, locking both in glass vaults. Then, covertly, Ravan keyed the true quiver to his lifeline: only our merged energies could open it.
Dawn council convened in the Throne Rotunda. Nobles packed balconies; rumor buzzed like wasps. Sarielle, in ethereal gown of raven feathers, stood near the glass vaults. With a flourish she offered truce parchment.
"Before we decide," Ravan proclaimed, wings unfurling in authority, "our empress shall present the weapon forged in Nightspire's heart."
Sarielle's eyes glittered anticipation.
I approached vaults, laid hands on decoy quiver. It clicked open. Gasps rippled. The duchess relaxed—mistaking success for truth.
I held arrow high. "Behold the Arrow of Twin Dawn."
Under illusion dust it glowed convincingly. Sarielle smiled like a snake witnessing prey.
Ravan stepped forward, surveying court. "Tonight, eclipse climaxes three hours past moonrise. Myron's star‑iron stock remains. We answer with this arrow—unless council accepts Sarielle's truce proposal."
Murmurs.
High Lord Jareth spoke: "Two provinces lost to spare war—tempting bargain."
Sarielle pressed: "We preserve lives, avert prophecy." She pivoted, sweeping arm to vault. "Let the arrow remain unused. Vote, my lords."
I caught Ravan's eye, nodded subtly.
He gestured to herald. "Council will recess for deliberation."
As nobles argued, Sarielle drifted near me. "Such marvel you forged," she cooed. "May I admire?" Without waiting, she plucked arrow from my slack hands.
Illusion dust coated her fingers. She failed to notice its vulgar ordinariness under close scent. Satisfaction warmed me.
Sarielle slid arrow under cloak, evidently planning to sabotage—or perhaps deliver to Myron—while thinking she crippled us.
Council resumed: majority rejected ceding provinces. War path chosen. Sarielle feigned disappointment yet bowed to majority.
Meeting adjourned.
Outside, Vael shadowed Sarielle. He later reported she indeed switched arrow with priest confederates at Veil Gate, dispatching it via silver raven.
Good. Our ruse soared straight into Myron's vault.
Sun set on the penultimate night. Ravan and I retired to battlements overlooking abyss. Shadows lengthened; lava below cast upward glow that painted his face in warm fire.
"Tomorrow decides," he said quietly.
I leaned on parapet. "Tomorrow begins. We still write chapters after." My gaze slid to his star‑scarred shoulder. "Pain?"
"Echo." He flexed. "But twin‑light shields my core. You?"
I pressed fingers to temple where mirror specter touched—a faint ache, memory of lost gardens. "I'll plant new ones."
His smile—soft. "When war ends, I will plant them with you."
The admission stole breath. Heat of lava could not equal warmth flushing my cheeks. "In Tenebris?"
"In both realms, if we prevail." He stepped closer. "Leora, destiny is forged like our arrow: molten, painful, but bright."
He caught my hand. The merged sigils in our palms glowed—silver in his, jade in mine—pulsing synchronous.
Somewhere below, echo‑iron rumbled final warning. Above, moon climbed toward fullness—bloated, impatient.
Ravan leaned, forehead resting against mine. "When the sky darkens tomorrow, shoot straight. I will stand beside you, whatever future bleeds."
"I know," I whispered.
And in that hush, shadow and soul‑fire braided not as weapon but as promise—something stronger than star‑iron, older than prophecy.