"She's here."
Naia's voice broke the silence like a blade drawn in the dark.
The wind stilled. Even the rust-colored leaves around the ruined altar dared not fall. Ivyra's hand shifted toward the hilt at her side, eyes sweeping the moonlit treeline beyond the hollow. Lyxra stiffened in her smaller form, ears flattened, tail low—not out of fear, but readiness.
From the shadows between the ancient stone pillars, something stirred.
Not footsteps. Not breath. Just presence.
A shimmer. Then form.
A woman stepped into the clearing, cloaked in a veil of starlight. Her face was obscured—not by darkness, but by something too vast, too threaded with light and memory, to be held by mortal eyes. Her skin flickered like sky-glass. Her eyes, when they opened, bore galaxies and grief.
Ivyra stepped forward, placing herself between the figure and Naia. Her sword, though undrawn, pulsed with restrained magic.
"Don't," the figure said, voice like wind across broken constellations. "If you unsheathe that blade now, it will sing the wrong song."
Lyxra growled, low and deep.
Naia, trembling, took a single step toward the woman.
"You're not... the one from the dream," she whispered. "But you know."
"I remember your name before it was Naia," the woman answered gently. "I was there when the vow was broken. I was there when your soul shattered across time."
Naia's breath hitched. Her knees buckled, but Lyxra darted beneath her to steady her.
Ivyra's gaze remained locked on the being. "Speak clearly. Who are you?"
The figure tilted her head. "I am what remains of a Watcher—bound to the Celestial Accord. I come not to harm, but to awaken."
"To awaken what?" Ivyra snapped.
Naia clutched her chest. A sharp pain bloomed through her ribs, then behind her eyes. A pulse, like a heartbeat that wasn't hers. She gasped—images flooding her vision:
Ruins lit by twin moons. A voice—hers, but older—uttering the name "Varexai." A shattered mirror suspended in the sky. A god falling from a throne of stars. Then...
Fire. Endless fire.
"I saw..." Naia choked, falling to her knees. "I was there."
"You were her," the Watcher murmured. "You carried the Shard of Remembrance. You sealed away what should not have been unbound."
Naia looked up, pale, trembling. "What's happening to me?"
"You are remembering," the figure said simply. "And memory is the sharpest blade of all."
Ivyra knelt beside her, wrapping an arm around Naia's shoulders. "She's not your tool. Not your vessel."
"No," the Watcher agreed. "She is not. She is the key."
Naia suddenly reached out, grasping the Watcher's wrist. Her voice trembled, but her gaze was unwavering. "Then tell me what I must become."
There was silence. Then, a soft answer: "You must become whole."
The light of the being dimmed. Her form began to dissolve—like sand slipping through the seams of time. As she vanished, a sigil burned itself into the stone at Naia's feet—concentric circles nested within sharp wings. A whisper trailed the air as the last of her light vanished:
"Seek the Dead Vale. The memory waits."
Serren, who had kept quiet all this time, finally spoke. "That mark... I've seen it. It's carved into the gate no one could open. In the Dead Vale."
The group fell into quiet, the air humming with something unresolved.
Later that night, when the fire burned low and the rest of the group gave into uneasy sleep, Naia remained awake—feet curled beneath her, seated on the cracked altar beneath the moon.
Lyxra padded over, larger now, fur dusted with stardust in her night form. She lowered herself beside Naia, resting her massive head near her lap.
"I thought I'd lost myself," Naia murmured, voice thin. "But I don't think I was ever just me."
"You are more," Lyxra said softly, her voice rarely used in words. "But that doesn't mean you are less."
Naia brushed a hand along her companion's cheek. "Then... what happens next?"
"You follow the echoes," Lyxra answered. "And I'll follow you."
Naia didn't reply immediately. But she didn't cry either.
For the first time, she didn't feel like she was breaking apart.
She felt like she was gathering pieces.
From behind them, quiet footsteps approached. Ivyra, hood down, eyes shadowed but soft, stopped beside them.
"You should sleep," she said gently.
Naia shook her head. "I can't. Not yet."
Ivyra knelt, the hem of her cloak brushing against the altar's cracked edge. She hesitated, then spoke: "You're stronger than you know. But strength doesn't mean holding everything alone."
There was something unguarded in Ivyra's face, something raw. A shared understanding passed between them—not just of past wounds, but the weight of futures colliding.
Naia's voice was barely a whisper. "Did you ever feel like you were made for something... cruel?"
Ivyra didn't look away. "Yes. But I chose what to become anyway. So will you."
Lyxra gave a soft chuff, flicking her tail to rest over Naia's feet.
In the distance, the trees rustled, but it wasn't the wind.
Somewhere beyond the cliffs, the Dead Vale waited.
And beneath the earth, something had begun to stir.