The fortress was a scar carved into the cliffside.
Built from stone and bone, it blended into the rock like it had grown there—hidden from the skies, from magic, from time. Firelight flickered from narrow windows. The air smelled of ash, steel, and old sweat. A place where survivors lived without forgiveness.
Seren had been here once, years ago.
But it had never looked like this.
Now it pulsed with activity—rogues sharpening weapons, elders hunched over maps, scouts returning from the wilds with blood on their clothes and silence in their eyes. No one smiled.
They didn't need to.
The war had already begun.
Riven led them down a narrow hallway, torchlight throwing flickering shadows across the stone.
"You know what you're walking into?" he asked.
Seren nodded. "Barely."
"Good. That means you won't lie."
She glanced at him. "Do I look like I have time to lie?"
He snorted. "No. You look like you haven't slept in a week and bonded with a man the Council wants dead."
"She has," Cael muttered behind her.
Seren smirked.
But only for a second.
Then the weight returned.
Riven stopped at a heavy wooden door carved with runes long since banned.
"You sure you want to do this?" he asked quietly.
"No," Seren said. "But I'm going to."
The Assembly room was circular, hollowed from a natural stone dome deep in the cliff. A dozen figures sat in a rough circle—elders, warriors, mages, and blood witches. No thrones. No banners. Just authority earned the hard way.
As Seren stepped inside, voices stopped.
Eyes turned.
Some stared with recognition.
Some with suspicion.
Some with outright hate.
The woman at the far end stood.
Old. Blind. Still dangerous.
"Seren Vale," she said. "Breaker of Bonds. Bearer of Fire."
Seren didn't flinch.
She stepped forward, her voice even. "I come seeking alliance. Truth. And if needed, blood."
"You'll get all three," the woman said. "But only if you survive this room."
They asked questions.
One after another.
What did she carry?
Who was the father?
Why did the Council mark her for death?
Why did Lucan—their golden boy, their prodigy—reject her so violently?
And most of all:
Why had the Hollow chosen her?
Seren answered every question.
Calmly.
Truthfully.
She didn't beg.
Didn't plead.
She explained.
The prophecy. The baby. The bond. The tower. The fire. The moment she stepped out of fate and said, No more running.
Cael stood behind her, silent as stone, eyes on everyone at once.
When the last question came, the room had gone still.
"What will this child become?" the old woman asked.
Seren's voice didn't waver. "Whatever he chooses."
"And if he chooses destruction?"
"Then I'll stand in his way."
Silence.
Then, slowly—nods.
Murmurs.
And one gruff voice from the back:
"She's one of us now."
The meeting broke. Slowly. Reluctantly.
The alliance wasn't sealed, but the door had opened.
Riven walked beside her down the corridor, whistling low.
"Well damn," he said. "You actually convinced them."
"They'll need more than words," she said.
"They'll get it. Word is the Council's moving south. In two days, they'll be at the Black Caves."
"Then we meet them there."
Cael caught up. "Not until we gather the rest."
"Rest of what?" Riven asked,"
Seren stopped walking.
"The ones the Council forgot."
They sent runners that night.
Messages carved into bark and stone, bound with blood-thread and old symbols only true exiles would recognize. In three days, she was told, they would return.
And then they'd see how many still had fire left.
That night, Seren stood on the tower overlooking the cliffs.
Cael found her there.
The stars were out—clear and cold.
He stood behind her, arms around her waist, chin on her shoulder.
"You were incredible today," he whispered.
She let herself lean back into him. "I feel like I've been talking for a thousand years."
"You've earned silence."
"I don't think I'll get it."
They stood in quiet together, the bond between them warm and steady. No longer painful. No longer uncertain.
It was a tether now.
Not a chain.
He turned her gently to face him.
His hand cupped her jaw.
"I would follow you into fire," he said softly.
She blinked. "You already did."
He kissed her then.
Not fast.
Not desperate.
But full of weight.
Of promise.
Of certainty.
Below, the fortress readied for war.
Black flags were raised.
Iron blades were sharpened.
Old songs were sung in low voices—songs about rebels and deaths that mattered.
And in her belly, the child shifted.
Not like before.
Not just a kick.
Something deeper.
An awakening.
She dreamed of the baby standing in a circle of ash.
But this time… he turned toward her.
Reached for her.
And smiled.