Eira awoke to screams.
Not human screams, but inhuman howls—piercing, distant, and echoing across the mountains like a death cry torn from the heart of the world.
She shot up from bed, the silk sheets tangled around her limbs, her heart thundering. The chamber was dim, lit only by the flickering hearth. Then—crash—the doors flew open.
Mira burst in, breathless, her braid half-undone, eyes sharp with urgency.
"What was that?" Eira asked, throat dry.
"Warning bells from the outer perimeter. Something's broken past the veil wards."
"Something?" Eira repeated, already reaching for her slippers.
Mira didn't answer. She crossed the room quickly and yanked open the armoire, tossing Eira a heavy velvet coat. "Get dressed. Now."
Eira threw on the dark coat over her nightgown, fingers fumbling with the buttons. Her hands wouldn't stop trembling. As she followed Mira into the corridor, her ears picked up the hum of magic pulsing through the stone. The runes etched into the walls glowed in sharp crimson lines, signaling danger.
The halls were already swarming with guards—some in armor, others wrapped in warding cloaks. Chanting drifted on the air. Spells. Shields. Preparations for war.
A figure emerged through the torch-lit haze—Ravien.
He looked her up and down with a frown. "So the human lives."
"I'm still working on it," Eira snapped. "What's happening?"
"A hellbeast crossed the border. No one knows how it slipped through."
"A what now?" she asked.
Mira's voice was low, grim. "A creature from the Ashen Realm. They haven't breached our world in centuries."
Eira's blood ran cold. "But Lucien's not here."
Ravien nodded sharply. "Exactly. Which is why I'm going to intercept it. You—stay behind the inner wards."
"I'm coming with you," Eira blurted, her voice firm.
Ravien turned slowly. "You're joking."
"No. I'm not useless. Lucien protected me when I was helpless. I'm not that girl anymore."
"You're still mortal."
"Then let's see if that's still true."
Mira looked torn, but didn't protest. Perhaps she understood. Perhaps she saw something in Eira's eyes—something unyielding.
The eastern courtyard was chaos.
Guards chanted shielding spells while archers took their positions atop the walls, loading arrows tipped with silver and flame. Screams echoed from outside the gates. A massive black creature—twisted, shadowy, its limbs elongated and skeletal—rammed the barrier again and again.
It had no eyes. No face. Just a gaping maw that shrieked like shattering ice.
"Stay behind the circle," Ravien barked, unsheathing two curved blades from across his back.
Eira moved to obey, but then the beast twisted violently and turned—as if sensing her. Though it had no eyes, it saw her.
Its malformed body lunged forward with unnatural speed.
"Move!" Mira cried.
Ravien leapt between them, blades flashing like moonlight. He clashed with the creature midair. A thunderous shockwave exploded from the impact, knocking several guards off their feet.
But the hellbeast didn't fall. It writhed and pushed forward.
And in that moment—something awoke in Eira.
A fire in her chest. A memory in her bones. Something deep, ancient, and furious stirred inside her like a storm breaking through stone.
She stepped forward.
The mark on her palm—the Binding Crest—burst into light.
"Eira, no!" Mira called, reaching for her.
But she was already walking—past the guards, through the protective runes. Toward the monster.
She raised her hand. The air froze. Time slowed. The beast stopped mid-lunge, head tilting slightly, as if it recognized her. Knew her. Then…
She remembered.
Another life. Another battlefield.
She stood in a field of moonlight and ash, a blade of crystal in her hands, her hair flying like fire in the wind. She wasn't Eira—not just Eira—she was Elira. The one who had once faced the void and said no.
She hadn't been afraid then.
She hadn't run.
She had commanded.
In the present, her voice rang out—strong, ancient, unshaken. "Return to ash."
Silver fire erupted from her Crest. A beam of light carved through the air, striking the beast's chest with a hiss that shook the heavens. The creature screamed—an earsplitting, bone-cracking shriek. Its form buckled, twisting violently, then disintegrated into shadow-dust.
When the light faded, silence fell like snow.
Guards stared. Ravien stood frozen. Even the wind held its breath.
Mira ran to her, eyes wide. "You—you did that."
Eira blinked, heart still racing. "I don't know how."
"You remembered something," Mira said softly.
"Not everything. Just… enough."
The mark on Eira's palm was still glowing faintly, pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own.
Ravien approached slowly, his tone uncharacteristically subdued. "You just wielded Moonfire."
"What is that?"
"A divine power," he said. "Lost to all but the high priestess… until now."
Eira glanced at the ash at her feet. "Then I guess the prophecy's real."
"Not just real," Ravien murmured. "Fulfilled."
Later, in her chambers, Eira scrubbed her hands in the washbasin, watching the black soot swirl away. The warmth of the fire felt distant.
Mira handed her tea, her hands still trembling slightly. "You could've been killed."
"I know."
"But you weren't."
"No," Eira said softly. "I wasn't."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
"Lucien will want to know," Mira whispered. "About the power. About you."
Eira stared into the fire. "Do we know where he is?"
"His riders were supposed to return by sunset. None have."
A pit opened in Eira's stomach. Something deep within her—the same part that had awakened in the courtyard—tightened. The bond she shared with Lucien… it felt thin. Like a thread drawn taut, ready to snap.
"I need to find him."
"You can't just go," Mira said, voice rising. "The warfront is—"
"I don't care," Eira said. Her voice was steady. "If something's happened to him, I need to know."
That night, she dreamed again.
The battlefield stretched before her—cold, broken, and red with blood. Swords were shattered. Magic still crackled in the wind.
And in the center—Lucien.
Kneeling.
Wounded.
Reaching for her.
"Elira…"
She woke with a cry, heart hammering, her Crest blazing against her skin.
The message was clear.
Lucien was in danger.
And nothing—not prophecy, not politics, not fear—was going to stop her from going after him.