The roses were still bleeding light.
Lyra stood at the center of the ruined chamber, one hand on the heart, her breath shallow. Around her, the air shimmered with dust and petals. Ursa leaned against a column, breathing hard but alive. Nim perched near the heart's edge, watching in silence.
Crowley muttered, "If we live through this, I'm starting a religion about naps."
But Lyra didn't hear him.
Something inside the heart was moving.
The golden glow pulsed again — slower now, deeper, darker. And from its center, a shape began to rise.
Malgar.
Not flesh anymore, but shadow made solid — a silhouette of smoke and embers wearing his cracked crown. His voice came low and sharp, like the sound of a knife drawn across stone.
"You think it ends like this, child? You think light forgives so easily?"
Lyra stepped forward.
"You're dead."
"Death is for the weak. And you —" he smiled, eyes burning like coals in mist — "you are my blood. You'll never be rid of me."
The roses around the heart began to wilt. Their petals blackened, curling into ash.
Ursa growled. "He's poisoning the bloom!"
"Then burn it out," Lyra said.
Her eyes turned grey again, brighter than stormlight. She raised her sword.
Malgar moved — faster than smoke, faster than thought. His blade, formed of shadow, met hers in a flare of white sparks. The impact hurled them both backward.
The cavern howled.
Lyra struck again, steel against shadow. Each blow lit the air like lightning. Malgar's laughter echoed between strikes — low, cruel, maddening.
"You fight like her," he taunted. "Your mother. So desperate to save what cannot be saved."
Lyra's arm trembled, her breath ragged. "She died saving me."
"And look how that turned out."
His blade slid past her guard — slicing her shoulder. Pain flared, hot and cold at once.
Ursa roared, but a wall of vines rose between them, barring his way.
"Face me alone," Malgar said. "Or you'll lose them too."
Lyra steadied herself. The taste of blood filled her mouth. She could feel the heart's pulse behind her — faint, frightened.
> "You don't get to speak of them," she said. "You killed them for fear of your own shadow."
> "No," Malgar hissed. "I killed them because they were weak — because they forgot what it means to rule."
He lunged. She parried, sparks bursting between them. The ground shook.
Every clash sent ripples through the roses — gold turning to red, red to black, black to flame.
Nim's voice broke through the roar. "Lyra! The heart— it's breaking!"
Lyra saw it then — cracks crawling up the crystal's surface. Each pulse weaker than the last.
Malgar smiled.
"Without me, the heart dies. Without the dark, your light fades."
His blade pressed against hers, forcing her down. The shadow spread, swallowing her reflection in the shattered floor.
"You need me, child."
Lyra's breath shuddered. Her vision swam — flashes of memory: her mother's laughter, her father's armor, the bear's warmth, the fox's eyes, the crow's voice.
Then — her mother's words, carried on wind and memory:
"When the dawn seems far, light it yourself."
Lyra's fingers tightened around the sword.
Her eyes flared brighter than ever — not grey now, but silver shot with fire.
"I don't need you," she whispered. "I am the dawn."
She thrust her sword through his chest.
Malgar screamed — the sound tearing through stone and soul. Shadow poured from his form, spiraling upward like smoke fleeing the sun.
The heart exploded in light.
Lyra was thrown backward, crashing to the ground. For a moment, there was nothing — no sight, no sound, no pain.
Then — warmth.
She opened her eyes to see Ursa's massive face above her, Nim trembling beside him, Crowley perched on her hand.
The cavern was gone. The palace stood reborn — vines blooming into walls of living green, light streaming through the cracked ceiling.
Malgar's crown lay before her, whole again, shining softly.
Ursa lowered his head. "It's over, little one."
Lyra looked at the crown. "No. It's begun."
She rose, her wound still bleeding but her stance unbroken. She lifted the crown — not as a trophy, but as a memory.
When she set it upon her head, the heart pulsed one last time — gentle, steady, alive.
The light spread through the palace, across the land, reaching far beyond the thorns. The lost kingdom breathed again.
Lyra stood at its center, sword in hand, eyes bright as dawn.
"For them," she whispered. "For all of us."
And as the first true sunlight broke through the ceiling, the roses bloomed again — this time, forever.