The stars had begun to pierce through the dusk, but Nyra couldn't bring herself to look at them. She stood near the outer watchposts, staring out into the charred forest where Elder Yaro had fallen. Her wrist still bore the outline of the glyph—faint and fading, just like the confidence she once held so tightly.
She heard her father's footsteps before she turned.
Tharen approached slowly, still wearing the scuffed armour from the battle earlier. His eyes carried the weight of the day, of what was lost.
"You should be resting," he said gently, stopping beside her.
"I can't," she replied, voice tight. "Not yet."
There was a long silence between them. The kind that only blood could share without it feeling awkward.
Then Nyra spoke—no sass, no sarcasm. Just her.
"I thought I was getting stronger," she said quietly. "I thought I could handle things now. But without KAIROS, I'm nothing. A few tricks, a spark or two. That's all I am."
Tharen didn't interrupt. He let her get it out.
"When I touched that creature," she continued, "I expected… control. Power. Like always. But all I felt was fear. Helplessness. And when KAIROS went silent… it was like part of me vanished."
She turned toward him finally, eyes glassy but sharp. "I don't want to feel like that again."
Tharen's expression softened—proud, but deeply concerned.
"I need to be stronger," she said. "Not just better at magic or glyphs. I mean strong. The kind of strength that can tear down a wall with a glance. The kind that doesn't blink when the world throws its worst."
She took a deep breath. "I want you to let me train under someone who can teach me that. Someone powerful enough to make even a god take a step back. Someone that scares kingdoms."
Tharen studied her face for a long time. The young firebrand he'd raised wasn't gone, but this Nyra was something else. Tempered. Reforged by loss.
"You're sure?" he asked. "Because once you start down that path, there's no walking it halfway."
She nodded. "I don't want halfway anymore. I want to stand on my own two feet. Even without KAIROS."
He exhaled through his nose, a rare smirk tugging at his lips. "Alright, kiddo."
Nyra blinked. "Wait… that's it? No lecture?"
"Oh, I've got lectures for days," Tharen said with a chuckle. "But not tonight. Tonight, I see a daughter who's ready to stop pretending and start becoming."
She grinned faintly.
"I'll make the arrangements," he added. "There's someone who might take you. She's not the… gentle type."
"Perfect," Nyra said, cracking her knuckles.
Tharen placed a hand on her head. "Just don't lose who you are in the process, alright?"
"I'm counting on the process to show me who I am," she replied.
And this time, they watched the stars together, both knowing that from this night forward, Nyra's real journey had just begun.
The fire in Tharen's hearth had long burned down to embers, but he hadn't moved. His desk was littered with old maps, unlit candles, and a single parchment—stark and white, still untouched.
Outside, the village had returned to its uneasy quiet. The ground still smelled faintly of ash and monster blood. But in here, the air was heavier.
Tharen rolled his shoulders and sighed, the sound weighted with age and memory. He dipped his quill in ink and stared at the page. His hand hovered, unsure. This wasn't just any letter. This was reaching back into a life he had long buried.
"To Seraphine Quenara…"
He paused. Just writing her name felt like opening a locked chest in the back of his mind—one he'd welded shut with duty, grief, and time. A flicker of a younger him flashed across his thoughts. Wild. Reckless. Standing shoulder to shoulder with her at the edge of a burning cathedral, blades raised, enemies screaming.
He grunted. No time for ghosts.
"I'm calling in a favour. One, I hoped I'd never have to."
He looked toward the window where moonlight poured in like water. Outside, Nyra was asleep—he'd checked thrice to be sure. He could still see the tremble in her hands after the last battle. She had survived… but barely. And worse, she felt powerless without that damn Architect AI. Her confidence was cracking. He knew that look—he'd worn it once.
"My daughter needs what I can no longer give her."
The quill scratched softly.
"You're the only one left who can shape her into more than just a vessel. She needs fire. Purpose. And someone unafraid to break her pride if it means she stands taller for it."
He stopped writing for a moment, staring at the flames in the hearth. Elder Yaro's face flickered in them, and the memory made his chest tighten. The old man had given his life to protect Nyra's light. That kind of sacrifice couldn't be in vain.
"You always said we were cursed to carry our pasts. I'm asking you… help her carve a future instead."
He signed it not as Chief Tharen. Not even as "Father."
Just:
—T.
He sealed the letter with a wax emblem not used in decades—an archaic crest of their bloodline. A name the world hadn't spoken aloud in years, not without fear. He held it in his hand for a long time, looking at the symbol burned into the wax.
"Let's see if the world still remembers who we were."
Then he stood, wrapped the letter in cloth, and stepped into the night, wind brushing his face like the whispers of old friends long gone.
He summoned a Nightbird: A nocturnal bird known for its wisdom and elegance. It took the letter in its beak and flew into the Sky. Tharen watched it vanish into the sky and breathed a heavy sigh.
Tomorrow, the world would change again.
And his daughter would begin a journey from which she would never return the same.
Morning came late to Felyari Village, veiled by mist and a solemn stillness that lingered after the funeral. The villagers whispered, keeping their voices low. Not out of fear, but reverence. Something strange stirred in the air.
It started with a sound—soft at first, like wind chimes echoing from beyond the hills. Then the tremor. Gentle, rhythmic… otherworldly.
Kaeli stood by the gate, half-awake, chewing on a piece of dry bread. She froze mid-bite as a beam of golden light pierced the clouds overhead. The sky itself seemed to part as a gilded carriage descended, suspended by nothing... except what looked like four radiant, angelic creatures—winged beasts made of silk, starlight, and divinity.
Kaeli dropped her bread."…Okay. That's new."
The carriage landed with elegant finality, its wheels not touching dirt, but hovering a breath above the ground. Enchanted sigils glowed along its polished silver body, pulsing with a rhythm not unlike a heartbeat.
And then, the door opened.
From within, Seraphine Quenara stepped out.
She didn't just arrive—she made an entrance like the world had been waiting.Her skin shimmered with a soft, iridescent glow; wings folded behind her, delicate yet vast, like glass carved from moonlight. She wore flowing white robes, stitched with gold threads that hummed with latent energy. Her eyes—not human, not beastkin—were the kind that saw through illusions, lies, and maybe even time itself.
And walking beside her—trotting with a proud little snout in the air—was a strange, fox-like creature with three tails and a monocle.
"Hmph. A bit rustic, this place. Smells like… unfiled paperwork and teenage angst."The creature's voice was proper, clipped, and deeply offended.
Kaeli, blinking hard, stepped forward, still unsure if she was dreaming. "Uh… can I help you?"
Seraphine tilted her head and smiled with the grace of a queen and the mischief of a child."Oh, darling. I'm not here for help. I'm here to change everything."
She moved past Kaeli, who staggered backwards as the aura washed over her like standing in front of a sunbeam. Inside the Chief's house, Tharen waited at the door, arms crossed—but the faintest flicker of relief softened his expression.
"Mmm," Seraphine murmured. "You haven't aged as horribly as I expected."
Tharen gave her a deadpan look. "Still dramatic, I see."
"Of course. You don't bring down seven warlords with charm and elbow grease alone."
Kaeli peeked around the doorframe. "Who… is she?"
Seraphine turned to Kaeli with a wink. "Seraphine Quenara. Spellwright of the Seventh Glyph, Mistress of the Thrice-Broken Sigil, and this continent's last surviving fairy with a doctorate in blowing things up for fun and research."
The fox-creature cleared its throat. "She means Professor Seraphine Quenara, Headmistress of the Wandering Lyceum, and author of 'Rewriting Reality in Seven Easy Circles.' Don't encourage her flair."
"And," Tharen interrupted firmly, "she's also your new master, Nyra."
Everyone turned. Nyra stood on the stairwell, wide-eyed, still in her nightclothes.
Mira, who'd crept in behind, muttered, "New master?! —when?!"
Kaeli just whispered, "She's kinda shiny…"
Seraphine gave a slow, graceful bow."Nyra. Daughter of the Flameborn Line. Bearer of the Architect's Mark. Your training begins now."
Nyra blinked. "You're… serious?"
"Oh, completely," Seraphine said sweetly. "With one minor condition…"
She snapped her fingers, and in a flash of glittering light, Nyra was suddenly wearing a perfectly tailored maid uniform, complete with frilly sleeves, thigh-high socks, and a tiny rune-etched apron.
Silence.
Then Mira exploded, laughing and crying at the same time.
"WHAT?! No fair! Why does SHE get to be Maid Nyra?! I want one! I wanna be served tea by Maid Nyra too!!"
Kaeli doubled over in laughter. Tharen was already rubbing his temples.Nyra, for her part, just stood there. Stunned. Face burning. Dignity shredded.
Seraphine clapped, delighted."This is going to be fun."