The Ice Fountain no longer sang.
Its waters, once bright and luminous as moonfire, now rippled in hushed sorrow. A quiet mourning echoed through the cave, not only for Seriane, but for the unraveling of everything the ancient bloodlines had sworn to protect. Cold light filtered from cracks in the ceiling, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts of a forgotten truth.
Far from the fountain's basin, Zelaira moved through the hidden vaults of Kirenholme. Her breath formed clouds in the chilled air. Shelves of dust-laden relics loomed on every side, untouched for centuries. Her fingers hovered over an ancient stone disk pulsing faintly beneath cobwebs, as though it had been waiting just for her.
She pressed her palm to its center.
A surge of light bled from the stone, and her vision fractured. Time bent. Reality twisted. She gasped as the relic revealed what had long been concealed.
She saw Seriane — eyes wide, heart racing, voice breaking as she called out in fear. Her beauty, still radiant even in terror. And then came Morvane, emerging from the shadows like a specter. His hands carried no mercy. His voice was void of remorse.
The steel flashed. A cry was lost to the night.
Seriane fell.
Zelaira staggered back as the image of Eryndor dropped to his knees beside Seriane's lifeless form, blood blooming across her chest like a dark flower. He screamed her name, his sorrow too raw for words. But the world heard only silence. And then, Morvane, calm, calculating, spun the tale to the Watchers. Eryndor was cursed. The crime was his. The prophecy was tainted.
Zelaira clutched the relic, tears stinging her eyes. This wasn't just about a lie. It was a theft — of a destiny, of love, of a future that could have been.
She ran.
The walls of the vault blurred past her as she rushed toward the fountain. Eryndor had to know. The council had to see. The truth could no longer live in the dark.
But darkness had already begun to move.
In the grand hall where the ancient families gathered — Kirenholme of balance, Karradon of war, Ariven of magic — Morvane stood tall before the elders. Cloaked in authority, his voice cold and deliberate, he addressed the chamber.
"The protector has failed to come forward. The Ice weakens with every breath, and Eryndor remains in hiding."
The elders stirred uneasily.
"He is unworthy," Morvane continued. "He has taken a life. Seriane is dead. Her blood is on his hands. The curse has awakened in him."
A heavy silence settled. Then Vareon stood, proud and strong.
"Then I will rise," he said. "If the Ice needs a soul, let it take mine."
Morvane's lips barely curved, but it was enough. He had won.
The families nodded, uncertain but desperate.
They left the hall together, robes sweeping behind them like storm clouds on stone.
At the fountain, Eryndor stood still beside the waters. Kaelen silent at his side. The tension in the air was unbearable. The fountain pulsed weakly, the way a dying heart might beat its last.
Zelaira already with Eryndor, her cloak soaked with snow, breath catching in her throat. She hadn't spoken yet, hadn't dared to.
Then the council arrived.
Their boots echoed through the cave. Vareon stepped forward, solemn. Morvane stood behind him, gaze fixed on Eryndor like a noose drawn tight.
Eryndor turned, his face pale, haunted.
"You shouldn't be here," he said quietly.
Morvane's reply came swift, sharp.
"You let her die."
The words struck like iron to bone.
Something inside Eryndor shattered.
"She was all I had left," he breathed. "She believed in me… even when I didn't."
Kaelen moved closer, but Eryndor stepped forward.
"And you took her from me."
His voice cracked. "I saw her face… every night since. Her laugh. Her eyes. Her warmth. And I thought it was my fault. I thought… I killed her."
Eryndor's fists trembled at his sides.
"But it was you."
He lunged.
The fury was not madness. It was grief transformed. Grief that had been buried beneath silence for too long.
Morvane didn't flinch, but Vareon stepped in, drawing his blade in defense.
"Stop," Vareon said, breath hard, sword barring Eryndor's path. "You are cursed. You cannot be trusted."
"I was never cursed," Eryndor spat. "I was broken. Because I lost her. Because I believed your lies."
Then Zelaira stepped forward. Her voice rang out like fire across snow.
"He speaks the truth."
All eyes turned.
She held the relic high, its glow pulsing with silent agony.
"I saw it. I saw what you did, Morvane. You killed Seriane. You twisted the tale. You condemned Eryndor so you could control what came next."
Gasps rippled through the council.
"You think the prophecy belongs to you," Zelaira said, voice rising. "But it belongs to the Ice. And the Ice remembers."
Morvane's expression hardened. "You would believe a vision over reason?"
"The vision is truth," she said. "The relic showed it. Seriane's death was no accident. It was your design."
The cave trembled. A low groan echoed from the walls. The fountain pulsed — once, then again, deeper, more alive than before.
It had heard.
The elders looked between them, fear etched into their aging eyes.
Vareon lowered his blade slightly, doubt flickering behind his armor.
And Eryndor… he fell to his knees.
He pressed a hand to the cold stone beneath him. Not in surrender, but in sorrow.
"I would have given my soul for her," he whispered. "And I still will. But let it be known… I loved her. Truly. And I would rather die with her memory than live with this lie."
Above them, a flake of ice broke free and fell into the water. A ripple spread across the surface, quiet, wide, endless.
Truth had found its voice.
And the Ice was listening.