The sky burned orange, streaked with veins of dying light. The war had swallowed the land whole.
Elyen knelt in the dirt, fingers trembling against the hilt of her sword. Blood crusted her cheek, her ribs ached, and her breath came shallow. The enemy was closing in. She could hear them—metal scraping, boots crunching the dead.
She forced herself up.
A shadow loomed. A rider in black, eyes like dying stars. He did not speak. He did not need to. The cold that rolled off him spoke enough.
Elyen raised her blade. A whisper of wind curled through the battlefield, carrying a voice long forgotten. The Queen of Light took her bow… and then she turned to go…
No. Not yet.
She lunged, her body a vessel of pain and will. The rider swung. Steel screamed. Sparks flared between them. The ground trembled with the weight of war.
And then—darkness.
Cold fingers on her throat. The last breath hanging, fragile.
But the song… it rose. Faint at first, then swelling. The sky split open. Golden light poured down, washing away shadow.
The rider reeled. For the first time, he faltered.
Elyen drove her sword home.
The darkness shrieked. The war did not end that day, but something deeper shifted. The Queen of Light had returned.
And the battle was far from over.
