Caelan was bothered by very few things. Ekchron was one of them.

  Defeating him. That was the only logical path.

  Ekchron obeyed no rules—no territories, no warnings. He didn’t listen to reason. He didn’t feel fear. And worst of all, he never seemed to tire. He was an ancient mistake, persistent, refusing to disappear.

  Caelan clenched his jaw.

  He had seen something, though. When Ekchron tried to attack Lyciah… and pain tore through him.

  A curse imposed by Eresha.

  Caelan didn’t know exactly how it worked. He didn’t know what triggered it or how far its limits went. He only knew two things: Ekchron hated it… and he couldn’t ignore it.

  Perhaps he didn’t need the Dawnbringer. Maybe there were other ways to force the curse to surface. If he could provoke that pain—

  “NO, BUT WHY WOULD YOU GO THERE?!”

  The shout cut through the apartment like an arrow.

  Caelan closed his eyes for a second. Kept thinking.

  He had seen Ekchron tense up, falter, retreat—for the first time in centuries.

  “THEY’RE SHOOTING AT YOU, SEL! SELIAAAAANE!”

  A muscle twitched at Caelan’s temple.

  He forced himself to calm down. Patience was a virtue. He was patience.

  Ekchron wasn’t going to leave on his own. So he would have to be expelled.

  “I TOLD YOU TO GO LEFT!”

  Caelan slowly turned his head toward the hallway.

  Elric’s bedroom door was half open. Inside, the glow of a screen lit the silhouette of the werewolf, leaning forward with his headset on, his focus far too intense for a digital war.

  “I SWEAR IF I DIE IT’S YOUR FAULT!” Elric yelled.

  Caelan felt something inside him begin to tighten, like a cord pulled too far.

  Ekchron. The curse. Eresha. Lyciah.

  “NO, THAT’S NOT COVERING ME! THAT’S USING ME AS A SHIELD!”

  Caelan’s expression hardened as he took a step toward the hallway.

  “ELRIC.”

  The shout was sharp and commanding. It echoed through the apartment with the weight of a battlefield order.

  Instant silence.

  A second later, Elric poked his head out the door, still wearing the headset.

  “Yes?”

  “Be quiet.”

  “…I’m on a call.”

  Caelan stared at him.

  “Online game,” Elric added, as if that explained everything. “With Sel.”

  From the headset, a distant but unmistakable voice came through:

  “CAELAN? You sounded like you were about to execute someone!”

  Caelan closed his eyes again. Very slowly.

  “Elric,” he said, his calm dangerously restrained. “I am trying to think.”

  “Oh,” Elric replied. “Okay. Sorry.”

  He settled back into his seat.

  “But, uh… can I keep shouting quietly?”

  Caelan didn’t answer. He simply looked at him in silence, with an unsettling calm. The kind of look that doesn’t kill you—but makes you wonder how much time you have left to apologize.

  Elric stiffened immediately.

  “I-I won’t shout anymore,” he muttered, shrinking into himself. “Sorry.”

  On the other end of the call, someone laughed.

  Caelan said nothing else.

  He turned and walked into his study, closing the door behind him. The space was small, austere, obsessively orderly. A dark wooden desk, a straight-backed chair, shelves filled with books no one touched but him.

  He sat down slowly, rested his forearms on the desk, and laced his fingers together.

  He closed his eyes—and Eresha’s voice seemed to fill the room once more.

  “The balance has reacted. I created seven demons… and the natural balance of the world created something in return.”

  Her words formed clearly in his memory.

  He had been the closest to her. Over time, almost without noticing, he had become her guardian. Her silent shadow.

  She stood before him, wrapped in a long dress from another era. Pale fabrics spilled over the stone floor of the temple. Her long, wavy blonde hair, adorned with white flowers, framed her face as though nothing in the world could disturb her. Her green eyes—dim, hollow—belonged to someone who had already paid the price for what she had done.

  “The natural balance…?” Caelan asked, faintly frowning. “What do you mean?”

  Eresha tilted her head, thoughtful, as if searching for a simple way to explain something that wasn’t.

  “It isn’t a being,” she said at last. “It doesn’t think, judge, or decide. It has no will of its own. It is the world correcting itself.”

  She turned and began to walk through the temple. Stone columns rose around her, covered in ancient symbols.

  “When something exists for too long without its opposite,” she continued, “when an anomaly breaks the balance… the world reacts. Not out of morality or justice. Only out of necessity.”

  Caelan remained silent, listening.

  “I broke that balance,” Eresha went on. “I took humans who were about to die and turned them into something that should not exist. Beings who do not age, who concentrate too much power.”

  She stopped and raised a hand. The air trembled—and something appeared.

  It had no human form. It was a sphere of light, suspended in the air, the size of a torso. Its surface pulsed with a slow, deep rhythm, like a massive heart beating outside a body. Others appeared around it—identical, floating in silence.

  “This is the answer,” Eresha said. “They were not born of anyone. They come from no body. The natural balance created them from nothing.”

  A chill ran down Caelan’s spine.

  “What are they?” he asked quietly.

  “They are not complete yet,” she replied. “They are awakening. Learning how to exist. But when they finish forming… their purpose will be clear.”

  Seven pulses. Seven cores of light.

  “They will eliminate what unbalances the world,” she added serenely. “They will kill my creations. All of you.”

  Caelan placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Then…” he said after a few seconds. “What do we do?”

  “Seal them.”

  With a gentle gesture, Eresha pointed to a liquid mirror before them. One of her many mirrors.

  “In here,” she said. “Where they cannot complete themselves. Where the natural balance cannot reach them.”

  The memory faded.

  Caelan opened his eyes in his study.

  Over the centuries, that other side of the mirror had changed. The contained energy of those incomplete entities had soaked into the space, expanding it, stabilizing it, giving it form.

  Thus Elyndra was born.

  And from the pure essence of those sealed beings, other creatures began to emerge.

  The lumens.

  The natural balance still sought something that could stand against the demons—and they were the result: beings capable of purifying, of fighting what should not exist.

  In time, they organized. And Heliora guided them.

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  She was the one who found those sleeping spheres. Who felt the power within them. Who gave them a name and prayed that one day they would awaken.

  The Seven Pillars.

  Gods, according to her. Future salvation.

  Caelan remained seated, staring into nothing.

  Elyndra was not a miracle. It was a side effect—born on the other side of one of Eresha’s mirrors.

  The Ancestrals… had also emerged from a mirror.

  She had always used mirrors. To create. To seal. To contain.

  The idea struck him suddenly—so obvious it was almost insulting that he hadn’t seen it before.

  Mirrors. Eresha’s signature.

  Eresha had always been contradictory. She called Ekchron a mistake because he didn’t follow the natural balance of the world. Because he couldn’t die like the rest.

  But when that same balance reacted… when it created something meant to destroy her creations… she refused to accept it.

  She sealed those creatures without hesitation. Protected her creations, even knowing she was defying the very thing she claimed to respect.

  Caelan lowered his head slightly, connecting the pieces.

  Ekchron had spent millennia killing humans. But he had never attacked one of her own.

  If he dared to raise his hand against her… if he crossed that line… then he ceased to be merely a mistake and became a threat.

  Eresha would have done what she did best: contain him. Limit him. Bind him to a spell he couldn’t break.

  Like the Pillars.

  Caelan was almost certain now: the pain that stopped Ekchron when he tried to harm the Dawnbringer was only part of something larger. If Eresha had woven that curse… then the mirrors had to be part of it too.

  The palace of Elyndra rose before them with its impeccable geometry and constant light. Tall columns lined the main hall. The pristine white floor caught the echo of footsteps, undisturbed. There were no cracks, no signs of wear. Everything was built to endure. To impose order.

  Sorian walked with steady steps. No one stopped him or questioned him. He was a general of the lumens; his presence required no explanation.

  The glances weren’t for him. They slid toward the man walking at his side. White hair—long, impossible to ignore. No armor. No Elyndran insignia. He didn’t move with military rigidity or reverence. His movements were relaxed, careless, as if the place inspired no respect at all.

  Sorian paid them no mind. He didn’t look at anyone. He didn’t speak.

  They reached the throne room.

  Heliora was where she always was. Sitting straight-backed, hands resting on the arms of the throne, light falling over her. She looked up as soon as they crossed the threshold.

  “You’ve returned early,” she said, neither harsh nor warm. “You have not yet completed your mission.”

  Sorian stepped forward.

  Heliora was about to continue—but her gaze shifted to the man beside him.

  White hair. The shape of his eyes. The essence—impossible to mistake.

  Seraphi.

  The stranger smiled with confidence and stepped forward, overtaking Sorian.

  “Well,” he said, without a shred of respect. “So you’re Heliora.”

  He placed a hand over his chest in a theatrical gesture.

  “My name is Azael,” he lifted his gaze, holding hers. “One of the seraphi who survived.”

  Murmurs rippled through the room.

  “And I’m here,” he added, “because I know the truth.”

  Heliora didn’t move. She didn’t order his arrest. She didn’t show surprise or fear.

  That was when Sorian spoke.

  “Is it true?” he asked, his voice tight. “Tell me.”

  Heliora turned her gaze to him.

  “General Sorian.”

  “Is it true?” he repeated, louder this time. “Have you lied to me all this time?”

  Silence. No denial. No explanation. Nothing.

  Something inside Sorian broke.

  “You killed them!” he shouted. “You killed the seraphi to bring my mother here!”

  His voice echoed through the throne room.

  “You made it look like a demonic massacre,” he continued, breathing hard. “You let the world believe it was them. She believed it!”

  He clenched his teeth, his voice shaking with rage.

  “You knew she would never come willingly. So you took her home. Her people. Everything she loved.” He lifted his gaze to Heliora. “And when she had nothing left to return to… you brought her to Elyndra like you were her salvation.”

  Heliora watched him as if listening to a report.

  “It was necessary,” she said at last. “Elyndra needed the Dawnbringer. And she ended up here. The outcome was correct.”

  That was what hurt the most—the absolute absence of remorse.

  “Is that all?” Sorian murmured. “You have nothing else to say?”

  Heliora inclined her head slightly.

  “Your mission still stands,” she said. “Find Lyciah and bring her back. Do not allow her to stray from her path again.”

  She said it as if nothing had happened.

  Sorian took another step forward, his anger finally overflowing.

  “You will not touch my sister!”

  Before he could act, a hand settled on his shoulder.

  “Easy,” Azael said.

  Sorian tensed, but didn’t pull away.

  Azael stepped forward, turning his attention back to Heliora.

  “I had family. Friends. A home,” he said. “You erased all of that.”

  He lifted his gaze, and his smile vanished.

  “You took everything from me.”

  The air around him trembled. The spell concealing him shattered.

  A pair of wings unfurled behind his back. Large. Black. The feathers seemed to absorb light instead of reflecting it.

  A murmur of horror swept through the room.

  Sorian stared at him, stunned. He should have known. Those red eyes could mean nothing else in a seraphi.

  “A corrupted seraphi…?” he murmured.

  Azael turned his head slightly toward him.

  “Does it matter?” he replied, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “You want to kill her. So do I.”

  Sorian didn’t answer.

  Sparks began to leap between his fingers—small, unstable discharges. The air smelled of ozone.

  He raised his gaze to Heliora.

  “I gave you my loyalty believing you protected this world,” he said, his voice steady. “Today, I’m taking it back.”

  Thunder roared.

  “Find General Eryon!” one of the lumens shouted from the side of the hall. “All generals in Elyndra—now!”

  Panic spread fast. Soldiers retreating. Messengers running. Nervous glances darting between Sorian, Azael, and the throne.

  Sorian moved. The thunder exploded in his hands without warning. No calculation. No restraint. A brutal discharge tore through the hall like a whip of blue light, making the columns vibrate and cracking the floor in its wake.

  “DIE!” he roared.

  Heliora raised her staff, and light answered. The bolt struck her—and unraveled, dissipating as if it had never existed.

  Sorian didn’t stop.

  Another strike. And another. Chained lightning crashing down again and again, his sword soaked in electricity as he advanced without thinking, without measuring, without breathing.

  “He’s not calculating,” Azael murmured, amused. “How refreshing.”

  Darkness unfolded around him.

  Black flames burst from the floor, twisting like living creatures. They didn’t burn—they devoured. Nearby light dimmed at their touch, absorbed by the blackness taking solid form in the air. Blades. Spears. Claws.

  Azael moved alongside Sorian.

  “Come on, false queen,” he said with a crooked smile. “Entertain me.”

  The shadows lunged.

  Heliora took a single step forward. Light exploded—and the black flames veered away, curving, collapsing to the ground as if reality itself refused to let them touch her.

  “This is pointless,” Heliora said. “You cannot touch me.”

  Sorian screamed and charged, sword raised.

  For a moment, the impossible happened: the blade grazed her side. A clean, shallow cut—but blood welled.

  Silence lasted a fraction of a second.

  Azael arched a brow.

  “Oh.”

  Heliora looked at the wound in surprise.

  Sorian didn’t give her time. Thunder erupted again—this time from within. Electricity tore through his own body, burning his muscles, shredding his throat as he forced more power than he should.

  “FOR MY MOTHER!” he roared. “FOR ALL OF THEM!”

  The hall began to collapse. Columns cracking. The floor lifting in fragments. Azael’s shadows poured into the fissures, rising like black tides that cut, pierced, tore.

  Heliora stepped back.

  “We’re wearing her down,” Azael said, hurling a spear of darkness. “We can do this.”

  Heliora raised her staff then. Struck it against the floor—and the world caved in.

  An invisible force crushed them against the marble with brutal violence. It wasn’t an impact. It was like an order. The air itself forced them down, as if Elyndra had decided they had no right to stand.

  Sorian growled, driving his sword into the floor to keep from being completely crushed.

  Azael laughed under his breath, black wings spread, trembling under the pressure.

  “Ah,” he said. “Now that’s authority.”

  Footsteps echoed through the hall.

  “My Queen!” Eryon’s voice cut through the chaos. “We’ve arrived!”

  Sorian looked up. Eryon. Soldiers. Too many.

  Azael clicked his tongue.

  “Well. Fun’s over for today.”

  He spread his arms, and darkness spilled out.

  “No,” Sorian growled. “Not yet.”

  “If you stay,” Azael said, leaning close, “you die. And I still need you alive.”

  Sorian clenched his teeth. Looked at Heliora one last time—bleeding, but standing.

  “This isn’t over,” he said, his voice low and broken. “I swear it.”

  A black tide surged from Azael, flooding the throne room—over marble, columns, the air itself. These weren’t normal shadows. Light died at their touch. Lumens screamed, disoriented. Some fell to their knees; others stumbled blindly, clutching their chests.

  The pressure vanished. Sorian gasped as gravity released him. He rose at once, still shaking.

  “Now,” Azael said, grabbing his arm. “Follow me.”

  They didn’t wait.

  Darkness wrapped around them—blinding, weakening, shattering coordination throughout the room. Heliora stepped forward, trying to impose her light—but this time it didn’t respond with the same precision. The hall dissolved into chaos: screams, fractured orders, figures moving blindly.

  Sorian and Azael burst from the chamber at full speed.

  The darkness began to thin. Soldiers regrouped around Heliora, demanding orders, pointing, shouting.

  She didn’t answer. She only pressed a hand to her wound. And for the first time… she frowned.

  Sorian and Azael ran through Elyndra without looking back. They knew they had no time. Once the darkness fully faded, they would be hunted.

  The liquid mirror appeared before them, rippling softly. Azael stepped through first. Sorian followed without hesitation.

  The human world greeted them with a rush of cold air and normal gravity. The portal closed behind them as if nothing had happened.

  Sorian took a few steps… then stopped. He clenched his fists.

  “It was pointless,” he said, his voice heavy with rage and frustration. “We didn’t kill her. Nothing changed.”

  Azael watched him for a moment, head tilted.

  “Do you really think that?”

  Sorian turned to him.

  “She’s still alive.”

  “Yes,” Azael admitted. “But now she bleeds.”

  He stepped closer.

  “You wounded her on her own throne. In front of everyone.”

  Sorian clenched his teeth, his hands trembling.

  “Now they know you’re not hers,” Azael continued. “That you don’t obey. That you’re a threat.”

  A chill ran down Sorian’s spine.

  “I won’t stop,” he said. “Even if I have to tear Elyndra down stone by stone.”

  Azael let out a short, dry laugh.

  “That sounds much better.”

  He leaned slightly toward Sorian, his gaze drawn to his back. Torn fabric revealed the white marks where Heliora had sealed his wings years ago.

  “We’ll take back what was stolen from us,” Azael whispered. “We’ll avenge the dead.”

  Sorian nodded. Rage burned inside him like thunder about to break.

  And amid all that fury, one thought remained untouched: Lyciah would live.