They waited until twilight.
The Crescent Forest, the Stormlands, the Duskwither woods—all lay behind them now. With Elian's shadow magic veiling their presence, Lyra, Kael, Nyra, and Elian pressed forward toward the place where all three moons would align.
The Vale of Mirrors.
It was said to be the birthplace of the original magic—a sacred ground where the moons once sang in harmony. But the land had fractured long ago, cursed and sealed after the Crimson Gate was torn open by mortals seeking power beyond their reach.
"The cult will be there," Kael said as they crossed the edge of the glowing vale. "Waiting."
"They've waited for centuries," Elian murmured, their voice faint as smoke. "They believe the gate is a god. That if all three moonborn spill their blood, it will awaken."
Nyra swallowed hard, fingers curling into a fist. "Well, they'll have to kill us first."
Lyra said nothing. Her eyes were locked on the silver horizon where the moons began to align—three luminous orbs slowly forming a single column of divine light.
The moment was near.
And the gate was already opening.
The ground trembled as they approached the heart of the Vale. Pillars of moonstone encircled a massive crater, and at its center stood a great obsidian monolith carved with runes older than time. The air shimmered with energy, and from the depths of the pit, a hum began to rise—a deep, terrible vibration that made Lyra's bones ache.
The Crimson Gate.
It pulsed like a living heart, and surrounding it were the robed cultists, their faces hidden, their voices raised in dark song. At the head of them stood a woman cloaked in crimson, her eyes silver and gleaming with madness.
"The Moonborn arrive," she called, her voice echoing unnaturally across the vale. "You come willingly. Good. The gate hungers."
"Not for us," Kael growled, stepping protectively in front of Lyra.
The woman tilted her head. "You can't stop this. You were meant to bring it forth. You think your gifts are curses? They are offerings. Sacrifices."
Lyra stepped forward, staff glowing bright as starlight. "You've twisted everything. The moons chose us to heal the world, not destroy it."
"You naïve girl," the woman sneered. "The world was never meant to be healed. Only reborn."
Suddenly, the cultists surged forward, chanting louder. The ground cracked. The monolith split, and from it poured black mist—shadows that formed twisted shapes, clawing at the air.
Elian shouted, "It's coming!"
Nyra lit the sky with fire, her flames clashing against the shadows. Kael met the cult's guards with steel and fury. And Lyra… Lyra stepped into the center of it all.
She lifted her staff, and the moons aligned overhead.
The light was blinding.
Silver, gold, and indigo fused into one great beam, striking the crater. The Crimson Gate screamed, a sound that tore across the sky.
And then it split open.
A monstrous shape began to rise—no true form, only a shifting mass of hunger and magic. It was not a god.
It was a wound.
A tear in reality.
And it knew Lyra's name.
"Healer."
She fell to her knees as her mind filled with images—of burned lands, corrupted stars, broken magic. It was showing her a future of ruin, where life bowed to nothing but shadow.
But within that darkness, she felt something else: choice.
"You want my power," she said, breathless.
"I want what you carry. The blood of the ancients. The spark of creation. Give it freely… or burn with the rest."
Her staff cracked in her hand.
Nyra was screaming her name.
Kael was fighting his way to her.
Elian was holding the shadow back with every last ounce of will.
And Lyra stood.
She called upon the moons—not just their power, but their purpose. She reached deep into herself and unlocked the final piece of her gift: the melody of the stars.
The Song of Solara.
Her voice rose—clear, strong, beautiful—and the very air changed. The gate shuddered. The creature shrieked.
The moons answered.
Their light became one.
And from Lyra's hands poured pure, ancient magic—neither destructive nor tame, but true.
She sang the world whole again.
When it was over, the vale was quiet.
The cult was gone—scattered like leaves in a storm.
The gate was sealed, its wound healed by moonlight and melody.
Kael limped to her side, catching her before she collapsed.
"You did it," he whispered.
Nyra and Elian stood nearby, barely able to speak, but alive.
Lyra looked up at the sky. The moons were no longer aligned, but they shimmered gently, each a reminder of what had been lost—and found.
She smiled faintly.
"No," she said. "We did."