The village of Velrath woke to silence.
No tolling bells. No weeping skies. Just stillness, as though the land itself held its breath. The mist that had clung to the trees for generations began to fade, lifting like a curtain after a centuries-long play.
In the ruined cradle, Elian's body lay untouched. Peaceful. The dagger was gone—melted into ash—and in its place, wildflowers had begun to bloom between the stones. No one had planted them.
Father Luka stood beside him, whispering an old prayer through trembling lips.
"They will never know," he said. "What he gave."
Vlad didn't answer. He stared at the spot where the Hollow Child had vanished, jaw clenched. For all his rage, he had no enemy left to slay.
In the distance, bells began to ring.
But not tolls of mourning.
Wedding bells. Laughter. Children's voices.
The curse had broken.
Far beyond the woods, in a small house forgotten by maps, Mother Ilinca woke from a nightmareless sleep. Her eyes, once hollow, now brimmed with tears. "He did it," she whispered. "My son."
*
Years passed.
Velrath grew, and with it, stories bloomed. They called it a miracle. Said an angel walked through the forest. Said a priest banished the darkness.
But deep in the chapel, beneath the floorboards, Father Luka kept one relic—a piece of parchment burned at the edges.
Seven names. Seven sons.
Only one remained.
Beneath it, written in Elian's hand:
*"To break the chain, one must bleed willingly. Not cursed. Not chosen. Just… human."*
And so the gate remained closed.
For now.
—