Chapter 33 – Whispers Beneath the Moon
The fires of Gildcrest had dwindled to embers. The night sky, once torn by storm and steel, now lay quiet and vast—filled with stars like scattered shards of forgotten gods.
Jean stood on the eastern tower, her wings dimmed, armor cracked, body weary. Silvia stood beside her, silent in her crimson cloak, sword sheathed and face unreadable.
For a long time, they said nothing.
Below, soldiers tended to the wounded. Songs of survival hummed from tents. Cassien's laughter, rough and wounded, drifted up from the gate camp. Even Whitney, curled beside the shrine tower, slept.
Silvia finally broke the silence.
"You've changed."
Jean glanced at her sister. "So have you."
Silvia nodded. "But you wear it on your skin. The light. The voice. The… burden."
Jean closed her eyes. "I never wanted it."
"You never had a choice."
Silvia's gaze lifted to the stars. "When I left the Succession War… I thought walking away was the answer. That I could protect everyone without needing to fight my siblings."
Jean turned toward her. "You still can."
"No," Silvia whispered. "Now I realize… protection means choosing someone to stand behind. And someone to stand against."
Their eyes met, swordswoman to swordswoman. Sister to sister.
Jean spoke. "Will you stand behind me?"
Silvia didn't smile. But her hand rested on her sword.
"I already am."
That night, Jean slept for the first time in days.
But her dreams were not hers.
She stood beneath a silver sky. In a place of stillness. The wind carried no sound. The stars formed a giant wheel, spinning slowly across an endless void.
And from it stepped Celeste—goddess of the sun and light.
Her form shimmered with warmth and sorrow.
"You shine too brightly, child," she said.
Jean knelt. "Forgive me, my lady."
Celeste's voice was a breeze and fire all at once.
> "Do not kneel. You have earned your place… but light draws shadows."
Jean looked up. "What must I do?"
Celeste raised her hand, and a vision unfolded—a shattered mountaintop, a burning sky, and wings made not of feathers but of flame and hatred.
And a voice, deep and ancient, like the groan of the earth itself:
> "I remember the taste of Luther blood."
"Antares stirs," Celeste whispered. "The Dragon Lord heals. The peace you know was never peace—it was slumber."
Jean's blood ran cold.
Celeste touched her brow.
"You must grow stronger, Jean. The war between mortals will mean nothing when he awakens. The world needs a sword that even dragons fear."
And just before the dream faded, Celeste spoke one last time:
> "Seek the tomb of your forefather. Seek Martin Luther's blade."