They set out before dawn.
The world lay half in shadow, half in a misted glow that made the edges of things uncertain — as if existence itself were hesitating.
Lysander led the horses through the long grass while Arenne walked beside them, her bare feet brushing dew from the earth.
Though her body appeared mortal now, she still moved with that unearthly stillness, the kind that made wind bend around her rather than touch her.
Neither spoke for hours. The silence between them felt alive, too aware of itself.
Finally, as the sun broke over the hills, Lysander said quietly,
"You've been different since last night. Lighter somehow, but sadder too."
Arenne kept her eyes on the horizon.
"I let her go. The part of me that clung to what was gone. But the one who took her place — the silence — has grown strong because of my forgetting. She holds the half of me that refused to mourn."
"You mean the Shadow Queen."
"Yes." She turned her gaze to him, the faintest shimmer of gold in her eyes.
"She is what I became when I decided love must never end."
Lysander frowned. "Then she's your creation."
"She is my crime," Arenne corrected softly.
By the third night, the path narrowed through the Vale of Ashes — the land where the Eternal Palace had fallen.
What had once been fields of marble and moonstone was now a grave of glass and bone.
The air itself whispered. Not words, but memories: fragments of laughter, sobbing, songs that faded into static.
Lysander flinched at the sound, drawing his cloak tighter.
"It feels wrong here," he said.
Arenne stopped walking. Her expression turned inward, haunted.
"This is where I bound the sky to my will. Where I silenced death. The stones still remember what I did."
She knelt, pressing her palm to the ground. The surface rippled faintly under her touch, as if liquid beneath.
Her reflection shimmered there — her current face, and beneath it, another: regal, cold, the face of her divine self before she fell.
"You look like her," Lysander whispered.
"I was her," she said. "But she was not me."
That night, they made camp near the edge of the old citadel.
The ruins loomed like broken teeth, each shard of stone humming with low resonance.
Lysander couldn't sleep. He sat by the fire, staring at Arenne where she sat in quiet meditation.
Moonlight pooled around her like mist, threading through her silver hair.
Finally, he asked, "When this is over… when the silence is gone… what happens to you?"
She looked at him, her expression unreadable.
"If I destroy her, I destroy what made me eternal. My soul will unravel. I'll become only what I was always meant to be — a single lifetime, unbound."
"Then you'll die?"
"Eventually." Her tone was peaceful, almost relieved. "And for the first time, I think that would be a gift."
Lysander stood, pacing, frustration and grief tightening his voice.
"You speak of death like it's salvation, Arenne, but what about everything you've done? Everything you've saved?"
"It will endure," she said quietly. "Because it no longer needs me to hold it still. Life must move forward — even if it forgets its maker."
He knelt beside her, voice low.
"And what about me?"
She met his gaze, her lips trembling.
"You will remember me. That will be enough."
Far away, in the shattered throne room of Velhar, the Shadow Queen stood before the black mirror.
The priestess's body was gone; in its place, Arenne's reflection stared back, but darker — eyes void of stars, smile razor-thin.
"She walks to me," the shadow murmured. "She believes she comes to end me."
The mirror pulsed with crimson light, a heartbeat echoing deep and slow.
"But she forgets — I am her ending."
By dawn, the travelers reached the outer gates.
Vines crept along the cracked towers, their thorns glinting faintly in the dim light.
Arenne stopped and turned to Lysander.
"Beyond this gate, nothing will protect you. Not heaven, not earth."
He smiled faintly, hand on his sword. "Then I'll just have to protect you instead."
A small laugh escaped her, soft and fragile. "You mortals… always so stubborn."
"You taught me that."
Her smile faded into something solemn.
"Then let me teach you one more thing — how to say goodbye."
She stepped forward, pressing her palm to the gate.
The runes that had lain dormant for centuries flared to life — white, then red, then black.
The gates of Velhar groaned open.
Beyond them, only darkness awaited — and within that darkness, the faint, rhythmic sound of breathing.
The air grew heavy, thick with memory.
Lysander took a step forward, but Arenne caught his wrist.
"Do you hear it?" she whispered.
He nodded, uneasy. "It sounds like… a heartbeat."
Arenne's voice dropped to a tremor.
"It's mine."