Night hung heavy over Elareth. Not even the stars dared pierce the darkness that now smothered the sky, as though the heavens themselves had turned their gaze away from the world.
Lucien stood alone on the cliffside outside the village, the cold wind biting through his cloak. Below, the lights of the village flickered, dim and distant, like stars drowning in murky water. He had always hated this kind of silence—the kind that whispered of death.
He wasn't alone.
"I knew I'd find you here," Eiran's voice called gently from behind.
Lucien didn't turn. "You shouldn't be out here."
"You always say that when I'm exactly where I'm needed."
Eiran came to stand beside him. Their shoulders brushed, and that simple touch grounded Lucien more than any spell ever could.
"I got your letter," Eiran said softly.
Lucien finally turned, startled. "You… what?"
Eiran reached into his coat and pulled out the folded parchment. "You hid it under my pillow, Lucien. Did you think I wouldn't find it?"
Lucien's mouth parted. "I wasn't ready for you to read it."
"I was," Eiran said. "And I'm glad I did. Because now I understand."
He took Lucien's hands. "You're not fighting for redemption. You're fighting for love. For us."
Lucien's breath hitched. "I've never said it aloud."
"You didn't need to."
Eiran leaned in, and for a moment, there was only the wind and the heat between them. His lips brushed Lucien's—gentle, questioning, hopeful.
Lucien closed the gap.
The kiss wasn't passionate. It wasn't desperate. It was honest.
It was a beginning.
---
They returned to the war room, only to find chaos awaiting them. Maps had been upturned, reports scattered, and two of the sentries had gone missing overnight.
"The Circle's already begun," Lucien muttered, scanning the blood-stained letter left on the table.
Eiran read it over his shoulder.
"Ravencroft, bearer of the soul-fragment, you are summoned to the Hollow Citadel. Deny us, and your beloved pays the price."
Lucien's hands shook.
"They know," he whispered. "They know about you."
Eiran's voice turned cold. "Then we make our move first."
---
Preparations began immediately.
Lucien summoned his most trusted mages—Sorrel, Elen, and the twins Marik and Malen. Each had served him in his past life, and now, with new bonds of trust, they were ready to stand by him again.
"What is the Hollow Citadel?" Eiran asked as they pored over ancient scrolls.
"A fortress built at the edge of the world," Lucien replied. "No maps mark it, but it's where Altheria's physical essence was sealed long ago. The Obsidian Circle must have found a way to access it again."
"And they want you there… to finish the ritual?"
Lucien nodded. "If I go, I risk everything. If I don't, they'll come for you."
Eiran placed a hand on his.
"Then we go together."
---
The journey to the Hollow Citadel took them through the Vale of Thorns, a place where reality bent and twisted. At night, they were haunted by dreams—Lucien saw flashes of a boy in chains, and Eiran saw visions of a burning throne.
By day, they fought beasts twisted by corrupted magic. One of the twins, Malen, nearly died when a shadow wolf bit into his side. They carried him, bleeding, until Sorrel stabilized him with a binding rune.
Lucien refused to let another person die for him.
On the sixth night, as they camped beneath an ashen moon, Lucien and Eiran sat apart from the others.
"Do you think we'll survive this?" Lucien asked quietly.
Eiran looked at him, eyes shimmering in the pale light. "We've both died once, haven't we? Anything we do now is a second chance."
Lucien chuckled dryly. "You always make death sound so poetic."
"I have to," Eiran said. "Because otherwise I'd be terrified."
Lucien leaned into him. "I am."
They held each other until sleep took them.
---
On the ninth day, they reached the Hollow Citadel.
It rose from the earth like a wound—black stone dripping with old magic, towers like claws scraping at the sky. The gates opened before them, unbidden.
Lucien stepped forward first.
The inside was worse—echoing halls filled with the smell of rot and blood. Statues lined the walls, their faces twisted in agony. Each bore a name.
His name.
Ravencroft.
Hundreds of them.
Every version of him that had failed.
"Do you see this?" he asked Eiran, his voice barely audible.
Eiran gripped his shoulder. "Yes. And we'll break the cycle."
They descended into the heart of the Citadel, where a ritual circle pulsed with dark light. At its center stood a woman in white.
Altheria.
Her eyes were galaxies, her voice a melody. "You have come at last."
Lucien drew his sword. "No more games. I know what you did. You sent me here to fix what Ravencroft broke."
She smiled. "No. I sent you to finish it."
"Finish what?"
"The world," she said simply.
Eiran stepped forward. "He's not yours."
Altheria raised a hand, and Eiran was thrown back, smashing into the stone with a sickening thud.
Lucien screamed. "Eiran!"
Altheria advanced. "Give me your heart, Lucien. Complete the ritual. Let Ravencroft be reborn."
Lucien trembled, standing over Eiran's unconscious form.
His eyes found Eiran's pale face, blood dripping from his temple.
"No."
He raised his sword.
"I'm not your pawn. I'm not your villain."
And he plunged the blade into the circle.
The spell shattered, and with it, the Citadel began to collapse.
Lucien rushed to Eiran, gathering him in his arms.
"You're not dying, not this time," he whispered.
As the world crumbled, light engulfed them.
And then—
---
Lucien awoke in a field of flowers.
Beside him, Eiran stirred.
The sky above was clear, the weight of magic gone.
"You did it," Eiran said weakly.
Lucien smiled through tears. "We did it."
---
To be continued…
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