The storm did not end—it changed.
By the third day, the rain had turned to a fine silver mist, and the air itself seemed to shimmer with light. The roads vanished beneath her, swallowed by fog. The world felt suspended, as though she had crossed into a place that existed between one heartbeat and the next.
Lyssara guided her horse slowly, the reins damp beneath her fingers. Every sound was distant—the wind, the hooves, even her breath. The silence of the storm was heavier now, a silence that felt aware, watching.
She passed the remains of an old shrine, its roof torn away, its marble figures eroded by rain. The faces of forgotten saints stared up at her with hollow eyes. Once, she might have stopped to pray. But she no longer prayed. She spoke instead.
"I know you're here," she murmured into the fog. "Even if I can't see you."
Her voice echoed strangely, as if the world itself repeated it back.
"See you…"
She stopped. The mist rippled. From the distance came a faint light, faint but steady—pale gold, pulsing like a heartbeat. She followed it.
The light led her into a ravine where the ground had cracked open. Rivers of silver fire ran beneath the stones, casting shadows that moved on their own. She dismounted and walked, each step echoing like a whisper.
When she reached the center, the light swelled, bright enough to make her shield her eyes. And then she saw her.
Seraphyne.
Not in full form, but as light and shadow entwined—her wings unfurling like ribbons of flame, her eyes like the heart of the storm itself.
Lyssara could not breathe. "Seraphyne…"
The goddess smiled, faintly, beautifully, the kind of smile that broke and mended the soul in the same instant.
"Lyssara," she whispered, her voice like wind through water. "You should not have come."
"I couldn't stay," Lyssara said, stepping closer. "The world feels hollow without you."
Seraphyne looked away. The light around her dimmed. "I am no longer of the world. I am its shadow, its echo. What you see is what remains of me."
"I don't care what remains. I came for you."
The goddess's eyes softened. For a moment, the storm outside them both seemed to still. The air was filled with the scent of rain and wildflowers long extinct.
"You always were defiant," Seraphyne said quietly. "Even when you should have feared me."
"I did fear you," Lyssara answered. "And I loved you anyway."
Something in the goddess's expression cracked—just barely—but it was enough. The wind howled again, fierce and cold, and the light around her flickered.
"You cannot stay here," Seraphyne said. "The space between heaven and earth is not kind to the living."
"Then make me something else," Lyssara whispered. "Make me like you."
Seraphyne's eyes widened, the storm reflected in them. "You don't understand what you ask."
"I do." Lyssara stepped closer, until she could almost touch her. "You carry eternity. I carry what's left of the world. Maybe together, we can make something that neither destroys nor forgets."
For a long time, Seraphyne did not answer. The mist coiled around them like living silk, and somewhere far away, thunder murmured like a wounded heart.
Then the goddess raised her hand. "If I touch you now," she said softly, "your mortality will end. You will not age, but you will not rest. You will remember everything—and forget nothing. Do you truly wish for that?"
Lyssara looked into her eyes, steady, unflinching. "I wish for you."
The silence that followed was deeper than any storm.
Seraphyne's hand trembled as it reached forward, fingers of light brushing Lyssara's cheek. The contact burned—not with pain, but with memory. She saw flashes of stars, of creation, of the first dawn that ever was. She saw eternity breathe, and in that breath, her own soul unravel and bloom anew.
When the light faded, they stood together in the quiet aftermath. The mist had cleared. The ravine was gone. Only an endless horizon stretched before them, painted in dawn's pale light.
Seraphyne looked at her, eyes glimmering with sorrow and awe. "You are no longer bound by time."
Lyssara took her hand. "Then neither of us will be alone again."
For a heartbeat, it was peace.
Then the sky cracked.
A sound like glass breaking echoed through the heavens. Light split the clouds, and through it poured a storm not of this world—black, spiraling, infinite. Seraphyne turned toward it, her wings unfurling in alarm.
"The heavens are collapsing," she said. "The old order is dying. We have little time."
Lyssara held her gaze. "Then we face it together."
And as the broken sky fell toward them, they stood hand in hand beneath the storm—two souls no longer mortal, no longer divine, only eternal.