Soon, the ship rose softly and silently, with columns of sapphire fire lifting it toward the newborn winds. The escort skimmers followed, forming a protective arc around it.
The court fell away behind, its banners shrinking to distant specks.
Aboard the Veythriel, Elyra remained by the forward viewing deck, her hand gripping the rail as the sky opened before them. Serenya passed beside her, her cloak billowing like a river of blue fire.
The Lady's presence filled the chamber: her unshakable focus, her confident stride, conveying the certainty of the destiny that awaited.
For the others, her mere presence was enough to dispel all doubt. The soldiers who saw her pass saluted firmly, their eyes shining with absolute loyalty. But Elyra felt the weight of her oath upon her like a chain.
She would not break it. She could not. And yet, in the silence of her mind, questions took root like unwanted vines.
She had had visions—when the fragments sang in the night and dreams sharpened with unnatural clarity. Flames rising from stone, towers climbing beyond the stars, voices singing beneath skies riven by light. Serenya's citadel appeared, glorious and eternal… but always, Elyra had noticed, its long shadow devoured countless lives beneath it.
As the Veythriel plunged into the high currents, Elyra repressed the memory, hiding her unease behind iron discipline. Outwardly she remained firm, her bearing unshakable in the eyes of all. But within her, a thought whispered: "Her triumph will come. But who will pay the price? Was this the door that was meant to be opened?"
This time, the doubts were hers, not Serenya's.
She looked to the far end of the hall, where Serenya, radiant, spoke with Calwen, her voice laden with conviction. The crew listened to her as if each word carried fire and destiny. Elyra fed on that image but held her tongue; her oath burned inside her, steady, even as her faith twisted under the weight of uncertainties.
She laid her hand on her sword; the weight of steel anchored her resolve. No doubt would escape her lips. Before Serenya, before the Legion, her loyalty would shine absolutely.
She straightened her back and readied herself for the road ahead, her eyes fixed on the endless horizon.
The Veythriel roared with growing force, a spear of sapphire light cleaving the skies. Around it, the escorts held formation, and below, the world spread out vast and expectant.
From the highest balcony, Taelthorn stood alone, his hands on the cold balustrade, his gaze fixed on the departing vessel. The faint hum of the engines reached him like a distant echo as the distance between them grew.
His eyes followed the ship's glow until it vanished, his gaze woven from equal parts pride and unease. He trusted in Serenya's love and ambition, but certain secrets he kept concealed carried risks and invisible costs for her.
He stared at the unmoving horizon until the last traces of sapphire light dissolved. Only then did he turn away, and the great hall behind him seemed vaster, colder… emptier.
Sira rested reclined on a silk carpet of silver and golden threads, its surface seeming alive, dancing with the light amid shifting patterns. Spirals curved inward, as if seeking to draw the gaze toward hidden depths. Each thread of the carpet captured the sunset light filtering through the tower's tall windows, creating subtle illusions of movement, as if the fabric breathed with its own life. The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of ancient incense, mingled with the faint metallic smell of polished silver, enveloping everything in an atmosphere of profound mystery.
At the centre, a sun held by a half-moon formed the emblem of balance: a symbol of harmony and unity that seemed to pulse with contained energy. Along the edges, interlaced knots extended like infinite roots, recalling the invisible connections binding the visible world to the hidden. The carpet was an exuberant declaration of the mastery that had shaped such a tapestry, woven by hands versed in the ancients' secrets, in a ritual lasting full moons under the guidance of visionaries like Sira.
When the light shifted with passing clouds, the weave seemed to ripple like water in a pond stirred by an unseen wind; each thread held a faint inner glow that heightened the chamber's mystical aura. Shadows lengthened and shortened, casting ephemeral shapes on the black stone walls, carved with runes that flickered faintly in response. Over that tapestry of omens, Sira sat, eyes narrowed, breath slow and measured, as if inhaling the secrets of the wind itself.
Her hands rested on her knees, covered by translucent veils that floated lightly with each exhalation. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant howl of wind snaking between the northern towers. Sira felt the earth's pulse beneath her, a dull beat resonating in harmony with her own heart, preparing her for the vision to come.
Nearby, a crow perched on a blackened silver pedestal, inlaid with moonstone and runes etched with surgical precision. The base, carved in the shape of claws holding a polished obsidian sphere like a mirror, gave it a sinister and solemn air, as if the pedestal itself guarded forbidden thresholds. The bird waited motionless, its dark gaze fixed on her, its black feathers absorbing light like a living void. Its mere presence hinted at the enigmatic—and often ominous—role it played in its mistress's designs, a messenger between worlds, bearer of words not to be spoken aloud.
The crow tilted its head slightly, as if sensing Sira's unspoken thoughts, and a faint scrape of its talons on the silver broke the silence. She did not flinch, but her posture tensed imperceptibly, fingers curling into the carpet. The bird seemed to hold its own impatience, a creature of ancient intelligence that understood the weight of the inevitable.
Suddenly, Sira's eyes opened, fixing on the crow with an intensity that sliced the air. The bird cocked its head, aware of her immediate attention, its obsidian eyes reflecting its mistress's face like wells. She held its gaze without blinking; the eye contact charged with silent communication transcending words. At last, she spoke in a low voice heavy with gravity, each syllable echoing like a cave's reverberation.
"They have arrived. Go to them. Bring her to me. The next stage begins... and soon I must surrender that which I esteem most."
The words hung suspended in the air, heavy as lead, infusing the chamber with an omen that made the wall runes flicker more intensely. Sira felt a shiver run down her spine, not from fear, but from the certainty of an imminent sacrifice, one glimpsed in fragmented dreams over countless nights. The crow rustled its wings slightly, absorbing the command, its gaze lingering on her a moment longer, acknowledging the cost of what was demanded.
At her order, the crow extended its wings with fluid deliberation. Its feathers unfurled like a cloak of midnight, capturing light flashes that made them gleam supernaturally. An instant later, it rose smoothly from the pedestal; the air displacing in an icy breeze that stirred Sira's veils. It vanished into the northern sky, ready to fulfill its mistress's will, leaving behind a void that amplified the silence and the weight of what was to come.