Evelyn Sheeran with a sword in her hand and her enemy's name on her lips.
The battlefield around her was drowning in smoke—thick, black, and suffocating. The ground trembled as war machines tore through the stone walls of Caelis Keep. Screams, metal, fire, all layered over each other like a terrible orchestra coaxed forward by death's baton.
Evelyn's vision blurred. Her lifeblood seeped between her fingers in warm, sticky rivers. The sky above her dimmed, and the world around her grew hollow.
So this is it, she thought.
The end of the Sheeran's bloodline.
The end of the last royal guardian.
A shadow fell over her. Boots stopped inches from her head. A figure knelt—armor black as a starless night, helmet shaped like a snarling beast.
"You fought well," the armored warrior said, voice distorted. "But destiny does not bow to mortals."
Evelyn coughed hard. "Destiny," she spat blood, "can burn."
The warrior tilted their head.
"Die knowing this," they whispered. "Your soul will not rest. The world will call you again."
Evelyn felt fingers—cold as winter grave-soil—press against her forehead.
A ringing hum echoed. Symbols she had never seen burned bright behind her eyelids.
Then everything went dark.
But darkness did not keep her.
Light pierced her once more.
Warm.
Gentle.
Alive.
And Evelyn inhaled sharply as her soul slammed back into a body that was not her own.