The clearing reeked of old smoke and blood.
The trees around the burned bodies stood like silent sentinels, their bark scorched and cracked. Nothing moved. No birds, no wind. Just the hush of death, hanging in the air like a final breath never exhaled.
Seren stared at the ashes.
Six lives, erased in an instant.
They hadn't been hunted. They hadn't fought. They'd been silenced.
"There was no struggle," she murmured.
Cael crouched beside one of the bodies, brushing soot from what might've once been a pendant — now melted into the collarbone.
"It was surgical," he said. "Fast. Clean. Too clean."
"Council?"
He nodded.
"Elite unit," he added. "Silent Hand."
Seren went cold.
The Silent Hand didn't interrogate. Didn't collect. They eliminated. Completely. No trace, no trial.
"They were allies," she whispered, pointing to the markings on one of the scorched wrists. "This one's a blood-seer. My mother trained her."
Cael stood slowly. "Then this was a message. For you."
She shook her head. "No. Not just me."
He met her eyes.
Her voice dropped. "For the child."
They buried what they could.
There wasn't much left.
Cael used his blade to carve a ward into the ground around the site — not for protection, but for remembrance. It glowed faintly when completed, casting a soft pulse of silver light over the shallow graves.
Seren watched, arms crossed, heart aching.
The baby didn't stir.
Not yet.
She could feel it sleeping.
But not peacefully.
Its energy was low. Guarded.
Like it felt what had happened.
Like it had pulled inward to stay hidden.
Even unborn, it knew.
She closed her eyes.
Then whispered, "We have to fight."
Cael looked up. "What?"
"We can't just run. Not anymore."
"You said we needed time. That the bond had to settle."
"I was wrong," she said. "They're not waiting. They've already started."
They moved quickly after that.
Cael led them north through a broken stretch of the forest, taking old routes few remembered — routes his mother had once shown him when they were still running from assassins and shadows.
By nightfall, they reached a narrow ravine where the air shifted strangely — magic hung in the roots like mist.
They stopped beneath a natural archway made of stone and bone.
"This place is sacred," Cael said. "Old magic. They can't track through here."
Seren dropped her pack. "How long can we stay?"
"A few hours. Maybe."
She nodded.
It would have to be enough.
They sat in the dark, sharing water from a clay jug Cael had refilled near a spring. Neither of them spoke for a long time.
But the tension didn't lift.
Seren felt it rising in her chest — that creeping sense that the peace they'd found after bonding was already unraveling. The forest didn't feel safe anymore. Even when quiet, it pulsed with unseen eyes.
"You've been quiet," Cael said softly.
Seren nodded. "I'm thinking."
"About?"
"How to stop a war before it starts."
He watched her carefully.
"And if you can't?"
"Then we end it ourselves."
Cael didn't speak.
But he didn't argue.
Later, as they lay beneath the arch with nothing but blankets and breath between them, Seren asked him a question she hadn't dared before.
"Do you think Lucan will come again?"
Cael stared up at the sky. "Yes."
"Alone?"
"No."
Seren exhaled slowly.
She knew what that meant.
The Council had likely sanctioned him to retrieve her. Or worse—sanctioned him to destroy her and anyone who stood with her.
Her. Cael. The baby.
They would be labeled unstable. Contaminated. Unfit to exist.
The prophecy alone was enough to make them a target.
But bonding?
That sealed their fate.
"They'll come fast," Cael said. "Hard. They'll send people we know. People you've trusted."
She turned her face toward him. "Will you still stand with me?"
He looked at her, unwavering.
"I already did."
They left the arch before dawn, traveling through deep undergrowth and across jagged ridgelines where no scent trail could survive. Cael's movements were sharper now. More practiced. He no longer looked like a rogue.
He looked like a warrior.
And Seren… she was changing too.
Her magic was more precise. Her visions clearer. She could see things seconds before they happened — feel emotion through Cael before he spoke, sense animals before they moved.
It was like the bond had unlocked something.
Or maybe the child had.
They reached a small abandoned tower by dusk.
The place was old — part of an outpost lost during the last blood war. It sat alone on a rocky hill, half crumbled but still standing.
They climbed to the upper floor, where the wind was soft and the sky stretched wide above them.
It would be a good place to see trouble coming.
They settled in.
And waited.
That night, the dream returned.
But it was different.
This time, the child stood between two thrones.
One throne was made of flame and shadow. The other, bone and ice.
The child was older now — maybe five, maybe six — and his eyes were glowing white.
He reached out to both.
And both thrones burned.
When Seren awoke, her hands were glowing faintly. The bedroll beneath her steamed.
She sat up quickly, breath ragged.
Cael was already awake.
"You saw it?" he asked.
She nodded.
"He made a choice."
Cael didn't answer.
Then: "Which one?"
"Neither."
His jaw tightened.
Then they both turned toward the window.
Smoke on the horizon.
Coming fast.
By morning, the outpost was surrounded.
Shadows moved at the tree line — not fully visible, but too precise for beasts.
Hunters.
Council-trained.
Silent Hand.
Seren pressed her back to the stone wall, heart thundering.
Cael stood beside her, blade drawn.
"How many?" she whispered.
"Too many."
"Can we run?"
He shook his head. "They'll cut us off. This is the only defensible ground."
She looked around.
Cracked stone.
One entrance.
No escape.
"We fight."
Cael nodded.
"Together."
The first arrow struck the tower wall with a hiss.
Then another.
And another.
The attack had begun.
Seren stood, magic building in her hands, pulse steady.
She felt no fear.
Only fire.
Only love.
Only rage.