The days that followed were drenched in unease.
Elarion no longer slept quietly. The air shimmered with half-forgotten prayers, and the stones of the old cathedral sang when the moon rose. At night, Arenne would walk through her halls, barefoot and sleepless, her silver hair trailing light against the obsidian floors.
She could feel them—those who had begun to awaken.
Each pulse of divinity was like a heartbeat in her mind: warm, distant, and dangerous. Some glowed faintly with curiosity; others burned with defiance.
By the fourth night, she sensed one of them near the city walls.
The moon was full, crimson at its edges, when she reached the cliffs.
There, a woman stood, facing the sea. Her presence bent the wind; waves broke softly, as if bowing before her.
Her hair was dark as ink, her skin luminous as pearl, and her eyes—when she turned—were radiant with a light that was not mortal.
"Arenne," the woman said, her voice low and musical. "So it's true. The Queen has returned."
Arenne studied her carefully. "And you are?"
"Once, I was Elyndra—the Keeper of Dawn. The first flame that lit the world before the gods slept. You carry that light now."
"I carry many things," Arenne said quietly.
Elyndra smiled faintly. "So do I. Memory. Regret. A name that once meant hope." She stepped closer, her glow brightening until the stones beneath their feet gleamed. "You have awakened what was never meant to wake again. The Sleeper stirs, the gods remember, and the mortals whisper prayers they do not understand."
"I did not wake them," Arenne replied. "The world did. It was bound to happen once memory returned."
Elyndra tilted her head, studying her. "You sound like her."
Arenne's chest tightened. "Seraphyne."
"Yes," Elyndra whispered. "The radiant queen. The one who refused the end."
"She was my beginning," Arenne said. "And my echo."
The goddess of dawn smiled sadly. "Then you must be careful. The light she gave you is not gentle. It burns gods as easily as mortals. You carry creation and destruction in one hand."
The wind stirred between them, heavy with salt and power. Elyndra extended her hand. "Let me help you bear it. The world is fragile. The light must be shared—or it will consume you."
For a long moment, Arenne said nothing. Then she reached forward and took the goddess's hand.
A pulse of warmth surged through her—pure, bright, and agonizing. She saw flashes: the first sunrise of the old world, cities carved from light, and Elyndra's laughter before the storms took her.
When the vision faded, Arenne's eyes glowed faintly, silver entwined with gold.
"You are no longer alone," Elyndra said softly. "But unity will draw others. The dark ones will not stand idle while light gathers."
Arenne released her hand, looking toward the horizon where the sea glimmered under moonlight. "Then let them come. I will not run from what I am."
Elyndra bowed her head. "Then may the dawn guide your nights, Eternal Queen."
The light around her dimmed, and in a shimmer of flame and mist, she vanished—leaving Arenne alone beneath the bleeding moon.
That night, as she returned to the citadel, Arenne felt Seraphyne's presence beside her—soft, unseen, yet unmistakably near.
You walk the path we began, the voice whispered in her thoughts. But even dawn casts shadows.
"I know," Arenne murmured. "And I will face them all."
From the highest tower, she looked out over her kingdom—alive with whispers, lights, and sleeping divinities—and for the first time, she felt both mortal and infinite.
The balance she carried was no longer a burden.
It was becoming her truth.