Somewhere far from Aurelith, perhaps far from everything, a figure returned home.

  His consciousness settled back into its true vessel, seated upon an obsidian throne. The moment his eyes opened, a servant cloaked head to toe in black robes was already kneeling before him, offering a crystal goblet filled with dark wine. He accepted it without looking, lifting the glass lazily to inspect the liquid as though nothing of consequence had occurred.

  From the darkness, another man spoke. Calm, composed, and edged with something quietly sinister. “Already back, Varhathor? What happened to tearing Aurelith apart?”

  “Hmph.” Varhathor took a slow sip before answering. “I could ask the same of you.”

  He lowered the goblet slightly. “What happened to keeping the thing’s mind sealed within Thalpheria’s Abyss?”

  A pause, small, but telling.

  “It escaped?”

  “Evidently,” Varhathor replied, faint amusement creeping into his tone. “It went up against me, in fact.”

  The unseen figure seemed to share the amusement, more fascinated than annoyed. “Did it now?”

  Another presence stirred. Not a single voice, but many, dozens, rising together in low, reverent murmurs that rolled through the chamber like distant waves.

  Hail, Exalted One.

  Hail, Divine Creator.

  We have sinned…

  Prayer. Cultists, kneeling in the dark.

  Varhathor took another sip before speaking, his gaze drifting toward them.

  “Saevnir appeared as well. Apparently, the boy carries his factor as the dominant trait.” He swirled the wine once. “You can expect those closely tied to the Aurelien bloodline to possess the same potential.”

  A soft chuckle escaped the shadows.

  “Truly splendid,” the voice said at last. “It would seem that kingdom may serve us well after all.”

  Varhathor’s gaze lingered on the cultists as he finished his wine. Then he turned to the servant at his side, studied her, and smiled—slowly.

  “Where would you suggest I head next?”

  Back in Aurelith, the sun had already set by the time Edmund reached the capital.

  Aristide rushed to meet him at the gates the moment word of his return arrived. Before he even saw his brother, he had prepared himself for what awaited. The soldier who rode ahead to gather horses for the fallen had said more than enough. The younger prince knew what had happened in that forest.

  Even so, when the gates finally opened, his breath hitched. He could not stop the tremor in his limbs, nor the tears that swelled in his eyes. Along the flanks of the horses entering the city lay the bodies of the men who had departed that very morning, once filled with vigor. Aristide watched with stricken eyes as the riders passed beneath the archway.

  Somewhere among them rode Edmund, silent, head bowed, with Serena at his side. Even from a distance, Aristide could see the ruin of Edmund’s armor and the extent of his injuries. He rushed forward at once.

  “Brother!” Aristide shouted before he even reached him.

  Edmund lifted his gaze. To Aristide’s surprise, he managed a faint smile. Up close, the sight hit harder—torn plates, dried blood, Edmund’s hands still trembling on the reins.

  Concern knifed through Aristide’s chest, his voice breaking. “Those wounds—we need to get you to Miss Idun!”

  Edmund shook his head. “I’m all right, Aristide. Serena healed most of it before we rode back.”

  “Apologies, Your Highness,” Serena said quietly. “I couldn’t heal all of them fully.”

  “You’ve done more than enough,” Edmund replied, gentle as he tried to reassure her. “You helped fight that demon. You healed the men who survived. I know you’re tired, there’s nothing to apologize for.” His voice softened further. “I would have collapsed from blood loss long before we reached the gates if it weren’t for you.”

  Aristide glanced at Serena, then back to Edmund, weighing the truth in both their faces. “Are you sure you’ll be fine?”

  Edmund nodded once. “I just need rest.”

  He gestured behind him. The remaining soldiers were brought through, and Aristide’s expression faltered.

  On a cart lay Tristan’s unconscious body. Even after Serena’s healing, his clothes were torn and soaked through, his face pale, his brow locked in a faint frown. It was not the look of a man returned from a hunt.

  It was the look of a man dragged through something far worse.

  As they entered, Edmund turned to Serena. “Can you ask Miss Idun to tend to them once they’ve been laid in the infirmary?”

  Serena nodded. “Of course, Highness.”

  Soon after, Damien reined in beside Edmund, worry etched on his face—an expression unusual for the knight.

  “What about the fallen, sire?” he asked.

  Edmund was quiet for a moment before answering. “Prepare them all for burial at once.”

  Damien hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “May I suggest… cremation, sire? There are simply… too many.”

  Edmund shook his head. “Ease is not the concern, Sir Damien. They deserve proper respect.” His gaze stayed forward, his voice firm. “I know you understand that better than anyone.”

  Damien looked as though he’d heard his own suggestion anew. At last, he inclined his head.

  “As you command, Your Highness.”

  He turned his horse and rode off to relay the orders.

  Edmund looked around once, then turned to Aristide. “Where’s Nadja, by the way?”

  “At the Montclair mansion,” Aristide replied. “Her father won’t allow her to see the… fallen.”

  “I see.” Edmund’s tone did not change. “Then let’s head to the palace. I’d like to rest before we attend to our duties.”

  “Ah—yes. Of course,” Aristide stammered.

  Something about Edmund felt… different.

  As they walked, Aristide kept stealing glances at him. He had expected grief and silence, someone barely holding himself together. Instead, Edmund was calm. Composed. Almost too composed. His words came clean and measured, as if what happened in the forest had already been sealed away behind stone. Aristide lifted a hand to his chin, eyes narrowing in thought. He said nothing. There would be time for it later.

  Upon entering the palace grounds, they were met by Idun at once. She had been waiting outside since she heard Serena had ridden into the woods where Edmund was. The Alvarynn woman went straight to her adopted daughter, hands already on Serena’s shoulders, inspecting her with a mixture of worry and stern disbelief.

  “Why did you ride out there?” Idun demanded. “You’ve only just recovered. I wasn’t even certain you should be walking, let alone riding into monster-infested woods. What were you—”

  She stopped herself, suddenly aware of the two princes beside Serena.

  Idun closed her eyes and drew a slow breath. It was rare for her to lose her composure, and when she did, it drew attention like flame in darkness. When she opened her eyes again, her expression had settled back into control.

  She stepped back, bowed to the princes, and lowered her voice. “My apologies for that display, Your Highnesses. It was not my intention to disrespect you.”

  Edmund dismounted at once and faced her. “There’s no need to apologize, Miss Idun. We understand. And I would scold her too, but—”

  He stopped. His gaze shifted to Serena. He took her hand, gentle, yet tight, as though he had not quite convinced himself she was truly here.

  “I wouldn’t be standing here now if she hadn’t come,” Edmund said. “She’s saved my life twice over. To scold her for that would be… wrong.”

  Serena’s cheeks flushed at the gesture, and more at his words. “I’d do it again,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Over and over, if I had to, Prince.”

  Idun’s brows knit. Her gaze dipped to their hands, then lifted again. Edmund had always been kind to Serena, but this was different. This was too unguarded—too intimate.

  And Serena… Serena was usually shy. Careful. Quick to look away.

  Now she held the prince’s gaze without flinching, her words steady, without a trace of uncertainty.

  Idun looked from Edmund to her daughter, a thought forming with quiet disbelief.

  Was I the one who fell into a coma?

  Why does it feel as though they vanished from my sight for a month—

  and returned bound together as if they had shared a lifetime?

  Before she could voice the question burning on her tongue, Aristide spoke, breaking the tension.

  “Perhaps we should proceed,” he said carefully. “You need to be cleaned up and rested, Edmund. Serena is exhausted as well. It’s best we give her time to recover.”

  Edmund turned to him, then back to Serena. His fingers slipped from hers, reluctantly, until their hands separated.

  “I suppose you’re right,” the older prince said. He met Serena’s eyes. “Will you be fine from here?”

  “I will,” Serena responded. “I hope you get some rest.”

  “I’ll try,” Edmund said, the faintest attempt at lightness touching his tone. “Good night, Serena.”

  “Good night, Prince Edmund.”

  Edmund and Aristide offered Idun slight bows before turning toward the palace.

  “The surviving men will be in the infirmary, Miss Idun,” Edmund added. “Most of their wounds were healed by Serena along the way, but they still bear minor injuries that will need tending, when you have the time.”

  Idun returned the bow. “I will see to them, Your Highness.”

  The princes nodded and made their way inside.

  Idun and Serena did not linger. They turned and began the walk back to their house. As they went, Idun kept stealing glances at Serena, watching the way she stood, the steadiness in her voice, the quiet confidence with which she carried herself.

  It was as though Serena had aged a year in the few days she’d been unconscious.

  Idun held her curiosity as long as she could. Then it finally slipped free.

  “Serena, dear… do you remember anything from before you lost consciousness?”

  Serena lifted her chin slightly, a finger resting against it as she searched her memory. “We were attacked,” she said. “Monsters. I remember trying to fight them off with the king and everyone else.”

  “Anything else?” Idun pressed.

  Serena frowned, then shook her head. “Nothing that I can remember.”

  “I see,” Idun murmured.

  A pause stretched between them.

  Then Serena spoke again, softer. “I did have dreams, though. Several.”

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Idun’s attention sharpened. “What were they about?”

  “I saw places I’ve never been,” Serena said slowly. “Faces I’ve never met. I heard unfamiliar voices, people suffering.”

  Idun’s steps slowed. “What were the places like? And the people?”

  “It kept changing,” Serena replied. “In one, the homes were like huts. In another, they were square, stacked tight.” Her brow tightened. “And then… there were places bigger than palaces.”

  Idun’s throat went dry.

  “I saw Alvarynn,” Serena continued, her voice thinning. “So many of them. I—I saw them die and—”

  “Dear,” Idun cut in, sharper than she intended. She steadied herself. “Did you see anything else? Anything you recognized?”

  Serena didn’t answer right away.

  They walked in silence until their home came into view. Serena’s gaze fixed on the door as though it were an anchor. There was more, something she had been holding back. Not because it would harm anyone, but because she didn’t want fear in Idun’s eyes.

  Or worse…

  in Leif’s.

  But she couldn’t keep it to herself anymore.

  “Mother Idun,” Serena began.

  Idun stopped. “Yes, dear?”

  Serena swallowed. “Ever since that day… since the day we were attacked by those assassins, I’ve been hearing a voice. And… seeing apparitions.”

  Idun’s hands trembled, just slightly. “Apparitions?”

  Serena nodded. “Whenever she appeared, she looked like pure shadow, except for a pale hand, and eyes that glowed.” Her voice dropped. “She kept asking me to come to her. To take her hand.”

  Idun felt her breath turn shallow. “You saw her… even while you were awake?”

  “I did,” Serena said. “Just before we left for the king’s lodge.”

  Idun’s mouth barely formed the words. “Did she… ever say anything else?”

  Serena stared at the door, as though listening for something just beyond it. When she finally answered, her voice was almost a whisper.

  “I think she repeated it a few times.”

  Idun waited, frozen.

  Serena’s lips parted.

  “The night will fall…”

  A sudden, bone-chilling breeze swept past them. For an instant, the moon seemed to flicker, and the night, already deep, felt as though it blotted the land entirely.

  Idun’s breath hitched. Her hands trembled, lightly but unmistakably.

  “Do you know what it could mean, Mother Idun?” Serena asked.

  Idun didn’t answer.

  Her brows curved slightly, her gaze fixed on nothing at all, as though she were listening to something far away, something only she could hear. Then she whispered, not meant for Serena, not meant for anyone… perhaps not even for herself.

  “Elleina…”

  Serena’s brow tightened. “What was that, Mother?”

  Idun didn’t give a response.

  “Mother?” Serena tried again, softer now, unease creeping into her voice. Her heart thudded. “Mother!”

  Idun snapped back as if yanked from deep water. She turned sharply toward Serena, eyes wide, breath uneven, like someone waking from a nightmare they hadn’t realized they were having.

  She steadied herself, drawing in a slow breath, forcing her hands to still.

  “It was nothing, dear,” she said at last. “I thought I might piece it together, but…” She shook her head faintly. “Nothing comes to mind.”

  She reached for the door and slowly opened it. The scent of flowers and herbs greeted them at once.

  Serena removed her cloak and glanced around. “Where is Leif?”

  “He went to meet a man from Lunaris,” Idun replied as she prepared water for tea. “We didn’t know how long you would be unconscious, so I asked him to obtain something the man carried, water said to aid in recovery.”

  Not long after, Idun poured tea and handed Serena a cup without hesitation. “He should return soon. Please rest for now, dear.”

  Serena accepted it. As she drank, she recounted what had transpired in the forest, how she had sensed Tristan was possessed, how he had fought to resist the monster’s control.

  Idun listened in silence.

  She did not interrupt. She did not react. She only asked when necessary… and listened.

  After Serena finished, Idun helped her settle into bed, refusing to leave her daughter’s side even after sleep claimed her. Only when Serena’s breathing evened did Idun move.

  She placed her palm gently against Serena’s forehead and closed her eyes.

  She listened.

  Serena’s expression tightened, a faint crease forming between her brows. Idun remained still—patient, unmoving, until at last she heard it.

  The night will fall…

  Light bloomed from Idun’s hand, warm and golden, washing over Serena’s brow.

  “You won’t claim her,” Idun whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “Not while I’m here.”

  The light intensified, then her hand jerked.

  Darkness began to seep beneath her palm, thin as smoke, coiling out from Serena’s forehead. With it came a voice, low and intimate, laced with quiet delight.

  Is that a challenge I hear?

  “It’s a vow,” Idun answered, forcing more light into the growing shadow. Her breath shook, but she did not pull away. “Even—” She swallowed, steadying herself. “—even if it’s against you.”

  The room trembled slightly. Candlelight flickered, shadows dancing along the walls. Gradually, the darkness began to recede as Idun intensified the light pouring from her palm. Inch by inch, the shadow thinned, unraveling beneath the glow.

  Still, the voice lingered. Even as it faded, it spoke unhurriedly, savoring the moment.

  Then I must rejoice,

  for time, unlike to you, has never been against me.

  The last traces of darkness dissolved.

  Yet the whisper did not entirely vanish.

  Struggle all you want…

  the day…

  always…

  ends…

  Despite the presence vanishing, Idun continued to bathe Serena in healing light, unwilling to relent until she was certain no trace remained. Only then did she stop.

  Reassured, at least as much as she could be, that Serena was safe, Idun drew her trembling hand back and clutched it tight. Her legs nearly gave out. She caught herself by planting a palm on the edge of Serena’s bed, breath shallow and unsteady.

  “That… that should be enough,” she murmured, voice strained. “For now, at least.”

  She bowed her head, eyes closing as the last glow faded from the room. When she opened them again, her gaze lingered on Serena. With trembling fingers, she gently stroked her daughter’s hair.

  “Thank you… Creator,” Idun whispered. “For always watching over us.”

  Days passed peacefully after that night.

  It took three days to prepare the bodies of Edmund’s men for burial.

  King Renault was deeply shaken when word of the tragedy reached him. Nearly two hundred of his subjects had fallen, slain by one of their own, his will twisted by a demonic presence. Still confined to his bed in recovery, Renault received the news in silence.

  The court reeled in its wake.

  His ministers were divided. Some insisted Tristan had never been possessed at all, that the trauma of the first attack had simply driven him mad. Others spoke more cautiously, unwilling to voice their doubts aloud.

  Renault, however, was unwavering.

  “Edmund wishes to discuss this matter after the men have been laid to rest,” the king declared. “We will respect his request.”

  The ministers bowed in acknowledgment. Yet as they filed out, Renault heard something soft, fleeting, and familiar.

  One he had hoped never to hear again within his kingdom.

  “Look at what has befallen us since His Majesty took in all those Alvarynn.”

  The king’s gaze lowered, drifting to the patterns woven into his blanket—a golden five-petaled flower repeating across the fabric—as he pondered the weight of the event and its consequences for Aurelith.

  Before his thoughts could deepen, a knock sounded at the door.

  “Enter,” he called.

  The door opened to reveal Edmund, accompanied by Madame Grance, Damien, and three other knights. They bowed in unison before Edmund stepped forward.

  “Greetings, Father,” Edmund said. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Quite well, my son,” Renault replied. “And how do you fare?”

  “I have recovered,” Edmund answered. “Thanks to Serena and Miss Idun. The surviving men are recovering as well.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” the king said, though his expression softened with regret. “Still… I cannot take comfort in that alone, not after what transpired.” He lowered his eyes briefly. “I am sorry, Edmund.”

  Edmund shook his head. “I share the sentiment, Father. Even though I survived, along with a few of our men—”

  “It will never be easy to accept such a tragedy, my son,” Renault interjected gently. “Not all who follow our lead will remain to witness our victories, to share in celebration and joy.”

  The king fell silent for a moment, the words settling heavily between them.

  “Such,” he said at last, “is the burden of our station.”

  “Conrad spoke of the same thing,” Edmund said quietly. “About the burden of the crown.”

  “He was a fine knight,” Renault replied. “One of our best—and among the wisest.”

  Silence settled again.

  “The burial will be held tomorrow, Father,” Edmund said at last, breaking it. “Aristide or I can stand in your place, if you wish.”

  A faint smile touched Renault’s lips. “I believe you already have,” he said gently. “Both of you, sharing the responsibility of leading and guiding our people while I remain confined to this bed.”

  Edmund straightened at once, gaze dropping away. A hint of shyness crept into his voice.

  “We—we only did what we could,” he said. “We just followed what you taught us. We couldn’t possibly have—”

  “Done it better than I could?” Renault asked. “It could not have been done better, Edmund.”

  “I am proud of both of you.”

  He shifted slightly against the pillows before continuing. “That said… they were subjects of Aurelith, and our sworn soldiers. It would be improper of me not to attend their final farewell.”

  “Will you be all right, Father?” Edmund asked.

  “So long as there is someone to catch me should I fall,” Renault replied, drawing a ripple of quiet laughter from Edmund’s companions.

  Even Edmund managed a faint smile.

  “Very well, Father,” he said, inclining his head. “We shall take our leave and let you rest.”

  They bowed once more and left the bedchamber.

  As they walked, Edmund spoke with Madame Grance about the burial to be held the next day—the arrangements, the flowers, the stones to mark each grave. After a time, the attendant could no longer hold her thoughts back.

  “You seem to have changed in only a few days, Your Highness.”

  Edmund glanced at her. “What makes you say that?”

  “The way you accepted the loss,” Madame Grance said gently. “How you’ve taken charge in honoring them. The way you speak.” She hesitated, choosing her words. “You sound like an entirely different man from the boy you were before your coming of age.”

  Edmund did not answer at once.

  “Things have moved quickly of late,” he said at last. “So quickly that even I hadn’t noticed what you’ve just pointed out.”

  Madame Grance let out a slow breath.

  “I am glad to see you grow,” she said. “Though it saddens me that it had to come through so much… pain.” A faint, wry smile touched her lips. “I only hope Queen Emilie doesn’t scold me for allowing you to endure such things, once I meet her in the afterlife, of course.”

  Edmund let out a soft chuckle. “I know she won’t.”

  Madame Grance smiled in return. “I was merely trying to lighten the mood.”

  As they reached the main hall, Madame Grance’s gaze caught on a small cluster of maids gathered far too closely together. One was mopping at a glacial pace, another wiping a painting that clearly needed no cleaning, and a third carefully watering an empty flowerpot, all while barely containing their laughter.

  Madame Grance straightened her glasses and posture, eyes narrowing.

  “Those three again.”

  “Is something wrong, Madame Grance?” Edmund asked.

  “Nothing,” she replied coolly, “except that those three were clearly gossiping again, and leapt into pretending to work the moment they heard us approaching.”

  She huffed and stepped in front of the prince. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Highness. Duty calls.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  She didn’t make it halfway across the hall before her voice rang out—sharp and unmistakable.

  “You—why are you ruining that painting?” she snapped. “And you. Just what, exactly, do you think you’re watering there?”

  Damien leaned closer and murmured, “At least you told her everything that needs to be done by tomorrow, Highness. She’ll whip the staff into shape.”

  Edmund replied with a faint smile. “I know she will.”

  With that, Edmund and his knights continued on to the prince’s next duty.

  Around the same time, Leif returned from his journey, his cart laden with crates of bottled water Idun had requested.

  He reached the front of their house, dismounted, and went inside, expecting to find his mother waiting.

  Instead, he froze.

  Serena stood by the fireplace in the living room, tending the embers. At the sound of the door, she turned, and when she saw him, her face lit up. She straightened at once and waved.

  Leif dropped whatever he was carrying and crossed the room in a few quick strides, pulling her into a tight embrace.

  “I’m glad,” he said, voice thick. “So glad you’re awake.”

  “I’m happy to—”

  Serena stopped.

  Something tugged at the back of her mind. It wasn’t simply familiarity, nor the comfort of his presence. It was his voice—the cadence, the way he spoke her name.

  She had heard it before.

  Somewhere else.

  In the dream.

  Or perhaps nightmare was the more honest word, among the voices that flooded the Abyss while she was trapped in darkness.

  Leif spoke again before she could chase the thought, questions tumbling over one another: how she was feeling, when she had woken, whether anything still hurt.

  As they talked, Serena told him what had transpired while he was away, most importantly, what had happened with Edmund and the men. Leif sank into a chair, his expression darkening.

  “That explains the burial preparations I saw on my way here.”

  Then, quieter: “How is the prince doing?”

  “He’s doing fine now,” Serena replied. “At least… that’s what he shows.”

  Not wanting to delve into grief, she diverted the conversation, asking about Leif’s journey. They spent a long while catching up, the warmth of ordinary talk easing the tension in their chests.

  At last, Idun emerged from her bedroom.

  “I’m glad you’re back, Leif,” she said. “How was your trip?”

  “I have a lot to tell you,” Leif replied with a tired grin. “But… may I rest first, Mother?”

  Idun smiled and reached up to ruffle his hair. “Of course you may.”

  Serena hesitated, then added softly, “The burial is tomorrow, by the way. I know you’re tired, but if you’re able to come… I’m sure Edmund would appreciate it.”

  Leif nodded. “I’ll be there. Right after a good, long sleep.”

  After Leif closed the door, Serena’s gaze lingered on it a moment longer. Her thoughts drifted back to that unease. Leif’s voice. She was certain of it.

  He had been there—somewhere in that void.

  The following day, once all had rested and every preparation was complete, the procession to lay the fallen to rest began.

  Carriages bore their bodies toward the cemetery, moving slowly through streets lined with civilians. Flowers were cast beneath the wheels and at the horses’ hooves, petals scattering across stone in quiet tribute.

  After all that had transpired, it was easy to forget. Had those men not ventured into the forest to end the Draemhyr’s threat, the creature and its spawn would have continued to multiply, spreading until they consumed the kingdom itself.

  At the cemetery, the coffins were set beside their respective graves.

  Edmund took up the sovereign’s duty of honoring the fallen. He stood before the stone bearing their names, each carved deep into its surface. Behind him gathered the crowd: his family, Nadja, the Alvarynn, and the people of Aurelith, silent and unmoving.

  One by one, Edmund read the names aloud.

  Halfway through, his voice faltered.

  Then broke.

  Tears slipped free as the weight he had carried since the forest finally pressed down upon him—no longer something he could hold at bay. His gaze lingered on Conrad’s name, the knight’s words echoing in his mind:

  Keep leading…

  despite everything you lose along the way.

  Edmund fought for composure. He led the prayer for their rest, followed by a solemn speech of gratitude. When the men were finally laid to rest, he turned to those gathered behind him and bowed, offering thanks for standing with him and honoring the fallen.

  The crowd gradually dispersed. Civilians returned to their lives, their footsteps fading until only those of the palace remained.

  Edmund lingered a moment longer, his gaze resting on those who still stood beside him. At last, with only them remaining, King Renault gestured for them to return to the palace.

  As they made their way out, Edmund slowed to a stop.

  Not far from the path, a lone hawk perched on a tree branch, watching in silence.

  A voice spoke, firm, yet warm. A man’s voice, carrying grief without being consumed by it.

  Saevnir’s words flowed as though woven into the wind itself.

  They will not be with you forever.

  Not because bonds are fragile, but because time is.

  It is not the promise of eternity that gives moments their worth,

  but the quiet truth that they will end.

  So cherish them. All of them.

  The laughter and the tears.

  The bonds you forged, and the memories you carry.

  When the path ahead grows heavy,

  it is those memories that will keep you walking forward,

  no matter what stands in your way.

  Serena noticed Edmund standing still, gaze fixed on the hawk until it finally took flight and vanished into the sky.

  “Prince,” she asked softly, “is everything all right?”

  Edmund turned to her. A faint smile tugged at his lips, and he nodded.

  “Everything is fine,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

  He stepped closer, coming to her side.

  “Let’s walk home together.”

  Serena nodded, and together they left the cemetery side by side.

  Whether Edmund truly heard Saevnir’s voice, or merely felt his presence, was something only the prince himself would ever know. But as he walked away from the graves, one vow settled firmly within him:

  I will lead.

  I will carry this burden.

  Until the end.