The night before the Council, the moon bled across the sky. It hung enormous and crimson above Elarion, its reflection staining the marble towers like a wound that refused to heal. The people whispered prayers that turned to ash before reaching the heavens.
In the Sanctum of Veils, torches burned low. The air was heavy with incense and judgment. This was where gods were once invoked — and now, where their queen would be judged.
Seraphyne entered without escort. Her silver crown caught the light like a blade. Beneath it, her face was calm, unreadable, almost sculpted from moonlight itself. Only her eyes betrayed her — that faint gleam of weariness, of something human trying not to break.
At the far end of the hall stood the High Inquisitor Valen Thorne, his armor etched with prayers, his voice already sharpened for accusation.
"Majesty," he said, bowing low. "We have gathered beneath the Blood Moon as the ancient laws demand. This Council seeks only truth — and through it, salvation."
Seraphyne's tone was serene. "Then speak, Inquisitor. Let the gods hear what men have to say."
Valen stepped forward, his words deliberate, almost ritualistic.
"For centuries, your reign has kept the Veil unbroken, the heavens steady, and the faith of mortals alive. But now the stars dim. The rivers falter. The moon itself bleeds. We have found the cause — not in the hearts of men, but in the heart of their goddess."
A gasp swept the hall. Seraphyne did not move.
"You have bound your immortal soul," Valen continued, "to a mortal one. You have defied the celestial order. You have loved where only eternity should dwell. And through that love, you have opened the wound that consumes us all."
He lifted a relic — a fragment of black glass, gleaming faintly with starlight.
"This was found in the Garden of Starlight. It bears your essence, Majesty… and hers."
The queen's silence filled the room like thunder waiting to fall.
Finally, she spoke. Her voice was low, soft — yet it silenced the chamber.
"And what do you seek from me, Valen? Confession? Or execution?"
Valen met her gaze. "Redemption. If you renounce the mortal and return wholly to the divine, the Veil may yet heal."
Seraphyne stepped down from the dais. Each footfall echoed like the tolling of a bell.
"You speak of redemption," she said. "But tell me, Inquisitor — what is sin, if not the courage to love against eternity?"
Valen's expression hardened. "Love is a mercy given to the dying. You were never meant to die."
Seraphyne stopped before him, her presence dimming the torches. "And yet I envy them."
The priests began to chant, their voices rising like smoke. Sigils flared around the room, binding circles drawn from celestial fire.
Valen raised his hand. "Then by divine decree, we name you Fallen Sovereign. Until you renounce the mortal, your reign shall end."
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then Seraphyne smiled — slow, sorrowful, radiant.
"You cannot strip eternity, Valen. You can only teach it to bleed."
The runes across her body flared white. The flames of the torches bent toward her as if in worship. Every mirror in the hall shattered at once — the sound like breaking wings.
"If I am fallen," she said, "then let the heavens fall with me."
The Council dissolved into chaos. Priests fled. Sigils burned out. Valen alone stood his ground, his blade drawn but trembling.
And above them, the Blood Moon cracked.
Through the breach spilled light — raw, living, divine. It streamed through the shattered roof and crowned Seraphyne in fire. Her voice rose above the storm.
"I am the hand that built the stars," she cried. "And the heart that loved beneath them. I am not your salvation. I am your mirror."
Then, silence.
When the smoke cleared, the queen was gone. Only a single feather remained — black at the tip, silver at the base — fallen upon the altar of judgment.
In the streets below, Lyssara awoke to the sound of bells.
She looked to the sky — and saw the first dawn Elarion had ever known.