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A dream Lysara once had—of Dren dying in her arms, and kissing her goodbye.
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Ashengar, the Broken City — Nightfall
The skies over Ashengar bled violet. Smoke curled like incense through the crumbling spires, and somewhere in the distance, the sound of bells—rotten with rust—chimed out of sync with time. Lysara Vale stood alone beneath the Arch of Black Seraphs, her armor catching the dying light. Each breath she took was thick with the scent of soot and memory.
It was her first time returning to Ashengar since the massacre.
Her boots cracked over blackened rose petals strewn across the old court square. The petals had not rotted, even after seven years. Magic lingered here—the kind that didn't forgive.
The wind whispered through a cathedral ruin, carrying with it a voice wrapped in silk and thorns.
"Ashengar welcomes you home, little star."
Lysara's hand went to the blade at her hip, but she didn't draw it.
Instead, she turned.
Perched on a scorched banister like a crow, Valcian Myrrh gazed down at her. His eyes—mismatched, one gold and one ink-black—glimmered with a dangerous sort of poetry. His coat was obsidian velvet, embroidered with dying constellations. And when he smiled, the ruin smiled with him.
"Valcian," she said, her voice sharp.
He bowed. Not mockingly—reverently.
"I was wondering when you'd crawl out from whatever crypt you sleep in."
He leapt down. The fall should have broken his bones, but he landed in a swirl of shadow and roses. His steps toward her were slow, deliberate.
"I don't sleep," he whispered. "Sleep is for those who believe in tomorrow."
Lysara narrowed her eyes. "You knew I was coming."
Valcian's smirk widened. "Darling, I dreamed you were."
She hated how her stomach tightened at the way he said that. He spoke like a man who had known her skin, even though he hadn't. He shouldn't have. And yet—
Valcian's gaze drifted to her fingers, to the pendant dangling there.
"You found it, didn't you?" he asked. "The blood-rusted gift."
She held up the pendant. The once-silver chain now shimmered with faint crimson runes, cursed and shifting.
"To Lysara," it once read.
"For the mercy that undid me."
"I should have burned it," she said.
"But you didn't."
His steps brought him uncomfortably close. Lysara didn't move away.
"Why am I here?" she demanded.
"Because he wanted you to see me," Valcian said, tilting his head. "Because the Raven Prince always leaves a riddle before the storm."
"I don't care for riddles."
"No," he murmured, leaning closer. "But you do care for Dren."
That struck too close. She flinched.
Valcian's smile vanished. He stepped around her, brushing her shoulder with his sleeve. "The boy you once spared is long dead. What walks in his skin now…? Even I do not name it aloud."
"I will kill him," she said.
Valcian laughed.
It was a melodic sound, and yet it chilled her to the bone.
"You won't," he said softly. "Because you dream of him."
She turned swiftly—too swiftly. Her hand met Valcian's chest.
He was right there.
Heart pounding.
So was hers.
"You speak too much."
"And yet, not enough." He lifted a gloved hand and tucked a lock of her silver hair behind her ear. "You know what Ashengar is, don't you?"
Her voice broke. "A grave."
"No," he whispered. "A mirror."
Behind him, the cathedral's stained glass fractured in the wind.
Valcian leaned in, his lips inches from hers.
"Don't worry, Lysara. I'm not here to kiss you."
Her breath hitched.
"I'm here to remind you that he still wants to."
And then, before she could speak, Valcian Myrrh vanished—his body breaking into black feathers and vanishing into the wind.
Lysara stood alone again.
But her heartbeat no longer felt like her own.