For the first time in an age, Elarion saw dawn.
Not the pale imitation that shimmered beneath the moon, but true sunlight — gold, wild, and imperfect. It spilled across the marble towers, revealing cracks that had long been hidden, dust that had never been allowed to settle. The world looked both ruined and reborn.
But with dawn came silence. The prayers ceased. The stars no longer answered. The people who had once knelt before their queen now wandered the streets in confusion, unsure if the loss of eternity was a curse or a gift.
In the palace garden — where petals once glowed with immortal light — only Lyssara remained.
She knelt beside the pond, watching her reflection ripple in the water that now reflected sunlight instead of moonlight. Her eyes were red from sleeplessness, her cloak torn.
The garden no longer sang to her; it only remembered.
"She's gone," said a voice behind her.
Lyssara turned. It was Iren Vale, the scholar who had once trembled before the throne. His robes were stained with soot and ink. He carried scrolls pressed against his chest like holy relics.
"The Council fell. The Inquisitor hunts what remains of her followers. They call this new age the Twilight — neither day nor night. They think the gods are dead."
Lyssara looked back toward the palace. "No," she said. "She isn't dead. The Eternal cannot die. But she's somewhere the world can't reach."
Iren frowned. "And you mean to find her?"
Lyssara rose slowly. "If I don't, this dawn will mean nothing."
She left the palace that day. Alone.
Behind her, the banners of silver and moonlight hung in tatters. Ahead, the world stretched — strange, wounded, waking.
The roads outside Elarion were overgrown, the air thick with mist. Travelers whispered of strange phenomena — rivers that flowed backward, stars that blinked even under daylight, dreams that bled into waking hours. The Veil was unraveling. Reality itself had begun to dream.
Lyssara walked through it all, following a trail that only her heart seemed to understand. Sometimes, she thought she saw the queen's shadow — reflected in the water, or passing between trees — but when she turned, it was gone.
One night, she reached the Ruins of Vareth, an ancient temple built before even the Eternal Queen's reign. The walls were covered in old prayers, half-erased by time.
She lit a lantern and stepped inside.
The air shimmered faintly — and in that shimmer, a voice spoke.
"You should not have come."
Lyssara froze. The voice was faint, like a memory echoing through water — unmistakably Seraphyne's.
"I will always come," Lyssara whispered. "Where are you?"
A soft light gathered near the altar — not the radiant brilliance of divinity, but a fragile glow, like the last ember of a dying fire. It took shape: faint wings, pale hands, a face half-shadowed.
"You found me," Seraphyne said. Her voice was both sorrow and wonder. "Even the gods could not."
Lyssara's eyes filled with tears. "You left me."
"No," the queen said softly. "I left the world. But you carried me here."
They stood in silence for a long moment. The air around them felt alive — like the world itself was listening.
"The Veil is gone," Seraphyne said. "Elarion will fade without it. You should go back."
Lyssara shook her head. "I didn't come to save the world. I came to save you."
A faint, pained smile touched Seraphyne's lips. "Then you've already doomed yourself."
Lyssara stepped forward. "If loving you means falling — then let me fall where you are."
The queen reached out — her hand trembling, light flickering between her fingers. When she touched Lyssara's cheek, the temple flared with white light. The cracks in Seraphyne's form began to close, her shape solidifying, her wings growing whole again.
"You're… returning," Lyssara whispered.
"No," Seraphyne said softly. "We are."
Outside, the dawn deepened into a warm, golden haze.
For the first time, the Eternal Queen wept — not for loss, but for the fragile beauty of what had been reborn.
And when her tears fell to the ground, the first flowers of the new age bloomed.