Night crept over Elarion with a softness that did not belong to mortals.
Lanterns flickered one by one, their flames bending toward the palace tower as though answering a silent summons. Arenne sat in the highest chamber, motionless, watching her reflection ripple across a basin of still water.
The Mirror Veil had not released her completely.
Even awake, she could feel it breathing behind her eyes—an invisible tide that rose and fell with every heartbeat.
She reached out to touch the water's surface.
It moved before her finger met it.
Light coiled from the basin, silver and pale rose, weaving into the outline of a woman. The shape was fragile at first, then clearer—hair like spilled starlight, eyes too familiar.
Seraphyne.
Her voice was no louder than wind against glass.
Arenne.
Arenne's chest tightened. "You're not a memory."
No. The veil thins. You opened it when you faced Kael.
"I didn't mean to draw you through."
You didn't. You answered a call. I have always been here—waiting where the light and shadow meet.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The room hummed softly with the pulse of divine energy, the same rhythm that once guided the heartbeat of the old world.
"Why now?" Arenne asked at last. "Why return when the world still trembles?"
Seraphyne's form wavered, half-light, half-mist. Because you've begun to remember more than I dared. Because the balance you carry is heavier than I ever bore. You will need more than light to keep it.
Arenne lowered her gaze. "I don't know if I can. The people look at me and see salvation. The gods see a rival. I barely see myself."
Seraphyne's hand—only a shimmer of warmth—touched her cheek. Then remember why we began. It wasn't to rule. It was to love what was fragile.
Arenne closed her eyes. The touch was faint but real enough to draw tears she hadn't known she still could shed. "I miss you."
You never lost me, Seraphyne whispered. You are the continuation, not the absence.
The water stilled. The image faded, leaving a faint glow that lingered in the air.
At dawn, Vaelen found her still in the tower.
He said nothing at first, only looked at the soft light radiating from the floor where Seraphyne's image had been.
"You saw her," he said quietly.
Arenne nodded. "Not as a vision. As a presence. The Veil isn't just between worlds—it's alive. It remembers her, and now it remembers me."
Vaelen frowned. "That means others may cross. If Seraphyne can reach you, so can those who would unmake what you've built."
"I know."
She rose, her robe whispering against the stone. The morning light poured through the tall windows, illuminating her hair in strands of silver and gold. For the first time since her rebirth, Arenne felt whole—not untouched by loss, but steadied by it.
"Let them come," she said. "If the Veil breathes, then it's time I learn its language."
Outside, the city woke slowly.
The crimson moon had set, replaced by a faint, opal sun. Birds called from the ramparts, and far to the east, a shimmer of new life flickered across the sea—the promise of another realm beginning to stir.
And beneath the sound of waves, almost too soft to hear, came Seraphyne's whisper once more:
Every dawn is a doorway. Step through it carefully, my queen.