Twilight, 1788

  Wylan and Laila stood in the garden shed at the outer edge of the estate. In the centre, the form of Seraphina still hung suspended in the water elemental, wrapped inside a silver net. Her eyelids flickered, the enchantment Laila had placed upon her starting to fade. Wylan was unsure why he had thought to house her here; there was an oddness to the place knowing the ashy remnants of Mirembe still strewn across the floor like an unspoken accusation.

  Wylan broke the silence. “I need to retrieve the lantern from Soraya. Wait here.”

  He returned minutes later, the divine lantern of Hyperion hanging from his belt, its warmth a stark contrast to the chill of the shed. His hand rested on it, fingers trembling slightly. “What do we do with her? Do we let her live? She is our grandmother.”

  Laila’s gaze never left Seraphina. She was silent for a long moment, her jaw tight. “I do not think that is an option. She is the last surviving member of the vampire court, and has been responsible for the destruction of people she has known and cared for regime decades. She has also shown a certain... apathy towards the wellbeing of our family beyond its utility to her.”

  Wylan’s jaw clenched as memories of betrayal clawed their way to the surface: Augustine and Callion both. His voice hardened. “I agree, she may be family, but I’ve lost my taste for their kind.”

  He paused, anger simmering just beneath the surface. “She and her kind betrayed me on a deep and profound level.”

  Laila’s lips parted as though to speak, but no words came. For a long moment, they stood in silence, the weight of what they were about to do settling between them. She understood his anger, shared his pain, yet felt the sorrow of what this decision would demand of them.

  Wylan reached for the lantern’s cover. His hand stopped.

  She was watching him. Not Seraphina. Laila. Her gaze held no judgement, only understanding. She knew what he was feeling: the war between what Seraphina was and what she had been, between the grandmother who had existed somewhere in the past and the monster who had used them all as pieces on a board.

  She held me when I was a child, he thought. Before I knew what she was. Before any of us did.

  The memory surfaced unbidden: a flash of warmth, of safety, of a time before the betrayals had stacked so high they blocked out everything else. Augustine’s face swam up next, golden curls and sharp smile, the trust Wylan had offered and the casual cruelty with which it had been discarded. Then Callion. Then every vampire who had treated mortal lives as currency to be spent.

  His jaw tightened. The hesitation burned away.

  They made their choices. All of them.

  With grim determination, Wylan pulled the cover off the lantern. Divine light radiated and struck the still form of Seraphina. Her body writhed, a hiss rising as the water elemental recoiled under the onslaught of divine energy. Then, as if the fire within the lantern knew its purpose, the light surged, roaring outward in a cascade of golden flames. The fire ignited the water itself, transforming the elemental into a violent plume of steam and ash. The room filled with blinding light and suffocating heat, the clash of elements culminating in an instant of deafening silence as the figure within was incinerated.

  Laila turned her face away, her heart tightening as the steam enveloped them. The hiss of evaporating water echoed her own thoughts, each sound a reminder of what they were losing.

  When the steam finally cleared, there was nothing left but a pile of ash, stark against the charred remains of the shed’s wooden floor.

  Neither of them spoke as they left.

  They had done what needed to be done.

  There was no ceremony for what came next. Valère’s wounds had knitted themselves together with unnatural speed during the brief trial, his immortal flesh refusing to stay broken. Maximilian had been clear: the Ankh altar was a temporary measure. Something deeper was required.

  The descent to the heart of the dungeon began with solemn resolve, the air around them thick with unease. The dungeon path twisted and turned, a labyrinth of shifting shadows and eerie half-light. Every step pulled them further from the world they knew, the oppressive atmosphere dragging at their spirits like unseen hands. Whispers clawed at their ears, soft and insidious, promising truths they dared not hear. The further they went, the colder it became, the chill sinking deep into their bones.

  Maximilian had ordered Valère to be buried deeper, to ensure the punishment was absolute, and so they obeyed. Lambert, his connection to the light deepened by Laila’s teachings, conjured a faint but steady glow from his palm. The light danced in the darkness, its golden hue fighting valiantly against the encroaching shadows, though it did little to banish the sense of dread that clung to the air. Isabella walked ahead, her steps measured but wary, her gaze darting to every ripple in the darkness. Wylan followed with a hand on his belt, potions ready for whatever abomination the dungeon might conjure. Lambert brought up the rear, his quiet prayers a steady rhythm that kept the group grounded, his glowing hand the only true warmth in the oppressive cold.

  When the dungeon heart finally revealed itself, it loomed before them like a malign sentinel. A vast chamber stretched out, its walls lined with veins of pulsing, dark energy. At its centre stood the sarcophagus, a monolith of obsidian so black it drank the faint light from the shard Lambert held. Carvings spiralled along its surface, elaborate and macabre, depicting tales of despair and subjugation that made their stomachs churn. The air was dense, almost unbreathable, carrying the scent of decay and power.

  “This is worse than before,” Isabella muttered, her voice tight. Her usual bravado was nowhere to be found.

  “Everything down here is,” Lambert replied, his tone sombre. “The deeper you go, the stronger it gets.”

  They moved as one, closing the distance to the sarcophagus. Valère, bound and weakened, was dragged forward, his once-commanding presence utterly diminished. The chains that held him pulsed faintly, resonating with the oppressive energy of the dungeon heart. As they secured him to the sarcophagus, the atmosphere grew heavier, the weight of their task pressing down on them.

  Wylan glanced at the carvings, his eyes narrowing. “This place feeds on despair,” he murmured. “It’s alive, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Lambert confirmed, his voice barely audible. “And it will feed on him, just as it feeds on everything else trapped here.”

  With a collective effort, they heaved Valère into the sarcophagus. The dark stone hummed as it accepted its occupant, the chains wrapping tighter, eager to imprison him. The lid, impossibly heavy, slid into place of its own accord, sealing Valère within with a grinding finality that echoed through the chamber like a tolling bell.

  Wylan stepped back, his gaze lingering on the sarcophagus. “Now there’s a prison that will never let go,” he murmured. The words hung in the stale air like a curse, resonating with the dreadful certainty of their act.

  The chamber grew darker, the sarcophagus drinking the light. A faint hum reverberated from the obsidian monolith, an almost imperceptible pulse, like a heartbeat buried deep within the stone.

  The group began their retreat, their footsteps hesitant and their breaths shallow. The oppressive weight of the dungeon held fast, even as they climbed upwards. The whispers followed them, growing fainter but no less insistent, as if the dungeon mourned the fleeting company of the living.

  At the threshold of the Umbra, just before the portal closed, Wylan glanced back. His face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Enjoy eternity,” he whispered, his tone laced with grim finality.

  The portal snapped shut, cutting off the sound, the light, and the faint hum of the sarcophagus. For a moment, the group stood in silence, each of them haunted by what they had just done. The air outside the dungeon felt too crisp, too alive, a sharp contrast to the suffocating darkness below.

  “Let’s go,” Maximilian said finally, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “There’s nothing more to be done.”

  Alexios” library hummed with quiet anticipation, its towering shelves brimming with ancient tomes and glyphs that glowed faintly in the low light. In one corner, Greta carefully tended to a sleeping Aurora, the child swaddled snugly in a soft blanket within a makeshift cot. Beside her, a hastily arranged bed awaited Laila, a reminder of the precarious balance between rest and responsibility. Nearby, Maximilian sat with rigid posture, his fingers occasionally brushing the edge of the cot, reassuring himself of Aurora’s presence. His watchful eyes betrayed the worry simmering beneath his composed exterior.

  ? Fatherly instincts were surprisingly similar across species: human, elven, orc, or otherwise. They all boiled down to poking at things to make sure they hadn’t disappeared when you weren’t looking.

  In the adjacent secret chamber, the atmosphere was anything but calm. Strange, intricate devices filled the space, their arcane machinery humming with potential energy. The air was thick with the acrid tang of alchemical fumes and the low vibrations of dormant power. In the room’s centre loomed the obsidian portal, its polished surface a dark mirror that drank the light around it.

  Maximilian entered the chamber, his presence commanding as the family turned to him. He glanced at Lambert, then at the others, his expression taut with urgency. “There is less than an hour before the Pendulum reaches the eastern point,” he began, his voice sharp and focused. “Dawn is scheduled to arrive, but the city is in chaos. Theodora, the City Watch, the Rogue’s Gallery, and the rest of our allies are stretched thin trying to keep Pharelle from imploding. People are panicking, wondering where the sun has gone.”

  He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before fixing the group with a piercing gaze. “I need to know exactly how you propose to ascend something into godhood without harming my daughter.”

  Lambert nodded. “We are going to enter Aurora’s dream. Her Brand appears to possess a kind of awareness and seems deeply connected to the Flame of Hyperion. Our goal is to enter her dreams physically, meet this entity within her, and use the Flame of Hyperion to empower her, aiding in her ascension.”

  Wylan interjected, his voice steady but urgent. “To do this, we’ll need a way to open a portal into the dreaming realms.”

  “But the dreamscape shifts constantly,” Isabella said. “How do we find her?”

  “That’s where Laila comes in.” Wylan gestured to his mother. “She can serve as the beacon to guide us directly to Aurora’s personal dreamscape. If we use something strongly tied to her identity, it should help stabilise the portal and ensure we find her amidst all those ever-shifting currents.”

  Laila’s voice broke the ensuing silence. “The dreamscape often operates through symbols and associations. If we want the portal to find Aurora amidst the shifting chaos of dreams, we’ll need something deeply tied to her essence.” She reached into her satchel and carefully pulled out a small, well-worn book, its edges frayed from years of use. “My mother used to gift me lilacs, and I’ve pressed them into the pages of this book over the years. It’s more than just a keepsake; it’s a part of who I am, a connection to my past and to Aurora.”

  Lambert approached Greta and Aurora with a mixture of contemplation and resolve etched across his face. The infant’s peaceful countenance held an untapped reservoir of secrets, a flickering flame that demanded understanding. “Greta, if it’s alright, I’d like to inspect the divinity within Aurora myself,” he began, his tone steady yet reverent. “We have a theoretical understanding, but I need to confirm what we’re dealing with.”

  Greta hesitated, her protective instincts flashing in her eyes as she looked between Lambert and the child. Lambert straightened, consciously projecting a confidence he didn’t entirely feel. His expertise in matters of faith carried weight, even now. After a long moment, Greta nodded, though her voice carried a note of warning. “Alright, but don’t push her too far. This is already more than enough for her.”

  Lambert inclined his head in acknowledgment, respecting her caution, then turned his gaze to Aurora, his thoughts focused on the divine spark he hoped to uncover. Kneeling beside her, he placed the lantern of Hyperion carefully on the ground. Its warm, pulsing glow spilled across the room, bathing it in an almost sacred light and infusing the space with an atmosphere of quiet reverence.

  He began to pray, his words whispered but infused with purpose. His mind reached out, seeking the resonance of divinity within Aurora. Slowly, he felt the faint echo of her flame: a fragile yet potent connection to something far greater. The lantern’s warmth amplified the link, a current of solar energy flowing between him and the child.

  The surge of divine energy that followed was profound, more intense than Lambert had anticipated. It wasn’t just prayer, it was communion. The warmth enveloped him, flowing through him and into Aurora. In that moment, he glimpsed the fire within her, a spark of celestial inspiration that burned brighter than he had imagined. He stumbled back, his hand trembling, breath catching in his throat.

  Lambert’s thoughts turned to the risks. Could this divine presence, if ascended, harm Aurora? Would it strip away her humanity, leaving her a vessel for divinity but nothing more? The possibilities weighed heavily on him. Yet, a clearer understanding began to form as he reflected on the dream realms. They resided closer to the dominions of faith and imagination, a natural crucible for the genesis of gods. The dreamscape offered a purity of connection that could mitigate the risks, preserving Aurora’s essence while allowing the divine flame to rise.

  Laila stepped into the library, her gaze softening as she approached Aurora’s cot. She gently placed a hand on Lambert’s shoulder, grounding him. “That’s enough for now,” she murmured, her voice filled with understanding. She knelt beside the child and gently brushed her fingers through Aurora’s hair, her touch tender.

  Lambert returned to join his family in the chamber, Laila following a moment later. Still processing what he’d sensed, he began, “The dreamscape—it’s our best chance. Not for Aurora the baby, but for—” He paused, grasping for words. “Whatever this entity is. There’s something within her that feels distinct. Almost separate.”

  “Separate how?” Wylan asked.

  “It seems primed for ascension.” Lambert’s conviction grew as he spoke. “The dreamscape offers a purity that can mitigate the risks. We could preserve Aurora’s essence while enabling this divine flame to rise.”

  Wylan raised an eyebrow, his voice laced with dry humour. “Alright, I’m definitely not calling her Aurora either. Can we please give this divine fire being a different name?”

  Laila’s voice cut through with quiet authority. “What about Dawn?”

  Lambert nodded, his tone resolute. “Dawn it is.”

  Wylan dramatically gestured to the obsidian mirror. “Dungeon portals don’t always lead to the Umbra—they can be keyed to other realms. It would be possible to rekey this portal to temporarily link to the dreaming realms. If we’re careful, we could even attune it to Aurora’s dreamscape specifically, treating it as though it were a dungeon we were navigating.”

  Isabella cut across Wylan’s explanation. “Does this mean Mother will use magic to open the portal for us into the dream world?”

  Lambert shook his head. “No, we’ll need to take the lantern with Hyperion’s Flame into Aurora’s dreamscape physically, in the flesh. But Laila will enter as a dream—she will provide a beacon to guide us to Aurora’s dreamscape.”

  Laila handed the lavender book to Wylan, her fingers lingering on its worn cover for just a moment. “Prepare the portal. I’m going to join my granddaughter in sleep and prepare the way.”

  She returned to the library, to the makeshift bed beside Aurora’s cot. Lying down, she rested one hand gently on the edge of the crib. Within moments, her breathing had steadied into the rhythm of sleep.

  The chamber hummed with quiet purpose as Wylan and Soraya turned their attention to the task of recalibrating the portal. The lavender book rested between them on the workbench, its worn pages exuding an almost tangible sense of memory and connection.

  “This book does very nicely,” Soraya said. “It’s practically radiating her essence. If we key the portal to this, we should be able to shift its resonance away from the Umbra.”

  Wylan reached for the intricate ring mounted on the mirror’s outer edge, but Soraya’s hand shot out. “Don’t try to teach me how to breathe air, little one,” Soraya admonished. “I was practicing liminal science before you were born—take care, leave that alone or you’ll destabilise things.”

  She made the adjustments herself, and the runes shimmered faintly, their aggressive crimson glow softening into a tranquil violet. The obsidian mirror began to change, streaks of purple threading through its depths like veins of amethyst.

  “Good,” Soraya murmured. “This is getting closer to what we want to see.”

  Gradually, the mirror’s surface rippled, its black void fading into a swirl of rich lavender light.

  Wylan set down his tools and exchanged a glance with Soraya. “That’s it. The connection is shifting.”

  Maximilian moved to the window, glancing at the Pendulum’s position. “We’re running out of time.”

  When they inserted the signet ring, the portal responded immediately, opening with a soft hum and a gentle swirl of lavender light. The surface became fluid, offering glimpses of an ethereal landscape beyond: a realm of glowing fields and towering spires, wrapped in mist and pulsating with a dreamlike rhythm.

  “This is good,” Soraya said, her voice filled with satisfaction.

  Wylan exhaled, a flicker of relief crossing his face before his focus returned. “Let’s hope Laila is ready on her end. We’ve only got one chance at this.”

  Lambert, Wylan, and Isabella stood ready, their preparations complete. But then Maximilian rose from beside his daughter with a firm resolve, striding towards the portal with purpose. “I’m coming with you,” he declared, his voice steady. “And Mother is not awake to tell me otherwise.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Max, are you sure?” Isabella asked, her voice softened by concern.

  Maximilian’s expression was resolute. “I need to meet Dawn. Whatever happens, I can’t let this pass without seeing her.”

  Soraya turned to them sharply. “Then stop chattering, go. I will keep it open as long as I can, but do not stay after the hour of dawn, the time of waking.”

  Wylan smirked faintly. “For Lambert, maybe.”

  Together, they stepped into the lavender portal, their resolve as steady as the glowing path before them.

  The crossing was instantaneous yet disorienting, like waking from one dream into another. The sensation of the waking world fell away, replaced by something more fluid, more malleable.

  They stood in the dreamscape, Aurora’s palace glowing in the distance: a castle of clouds, radiant and surreal, floating against an endless twilight. The portal shimmered faintly behind them, a tether to the waking world, while the air danced with hues of lavender and gold, imbued with an otherworldly vitality. The ground beneath their feet shifted as though alive, responding to their presence with a gentle, rhythmic pulse.

  Before them stood Laila, waiting as though she had always been part of this place. She emerged in her full spriggan glory, radiant and wild. A lavender aura surrounded her, flickering like sunlight through dense forest leaves. Her hair flowed like streams of liquid light, framing a face that bore the sharp, elegant features of her fae ancestry. Golden eyes glowed with an intensity that pierced the dream’s haze, their light both inviting and unyielding. She seemed less a person and more a force of nature, untamed and unwavering.

  In this realm, all of them had transformed, appearing as reflections of their truest selves, obeying the dream’s strange rules. Wylan took on the guise of a primordial being of the ocean, his human features submerged beneath an aura of ancient depths. His hair, now entirely white, billowed in an unseen current, while his striking blue eyes gleamed like sunlit water over fathomless trenches. His skin glistened faintly, the texture of waves caught in moonlight, and around him swirled the faint echoes of storms long past.

  Isabella’s form was hauntingly beautiful, her siren nature unmasked. She moved with an allure that drew the eye irresistibly, her glowing presence casting soft, hypnotic light. But beneath the beauty lurked danger. Her gaze shimmered with an unsettling sharpness, like the glint of a predator’s teeth just beneath the surface. Her every movement spoke of grace and lethality entwined, a siren’s song wrapped in shimmering light.

  Lambert appeared as a child of shadows, his form small and hunched yet constantly shifting. The dream struggled to define him. He was composed of swirling darkness, his body fragile and insubstantial save for two glowing eyes that burned with intense, haunting clarity. The vulnerability he concealed in the waking world lay bare, stark and undeniable, a quiet reminder of the weight he carried.

  Maximilian retained his familiar features, but his fiery hair blazed brighter, like a living flame. Clad in his late father’s armour, he radiated a commanding presence that combined his identity with Alexios’ legacy. The golden insignias on his armour glimmered with a warmth that seemed to push back the dream’s unreality, his every step ringing with purpose and determination.

  Wordlessly, and aware of every passing moment, they turned towards the castle, the undeniable centre of this world. Aurora’s palace loomed before them: a fantastical structure of white stone laced with veins of liquid gold, glowing faintly against the dream’s muted twilight. The spires twisted skyward only to fold back in impossible loops, and windows opened to vistas that defied reality. Staircases rose into empty air, only to curve impossibly back upon themselves.

  ? Staircases like these are generally considered an affront to common sense and structural integrity, but they remain wildly popular among those who appreciate a more... recursive approach to architecture. After all, why walk in a straight line when you can loop infinitely upward; or downward?

  This was a domain where a child’s boundless imagination reigned supreme, weaving whimsy into every corner of its existence.

  Doors appeared simply because they were needed, their frames melting into existence before the group’s eyes. Corridors ended abruptly or bent impossibly, reflecting the fragmented yet boundless logic of dreams. Despite its grandeur, the palace was incomplete, a patchwork of intention and whim.

  Guided by Laila, the group moved carefully through this surreal landscape. The soft glow of the palace’s light illuminated their path, casting elongated shadows that stretched and twisted of their own volition. Each room they passed reflected the dreamer’s imagination: a hall filled with floating orbs of light, a garden where flowers changed colour with every step, and a library whose books whispered secrets too faint to hear.

  At last, they reached the Dawn Chamber. The room radiated a soft, golden light, as though the very air carried the warmth of sunrise. The walls shimmered with iridescent patterns that flowed like water kissed by sunlight, and the floor was less a solid surface and more a canvas painted from the essence of a dream. At the centre, a cradle of light pulsed gently, its glow inviting yet reverent, waiting for them to take the next step.

  A gentle voice broke the silence, soft and curious.

  “Hello, Grandmother. You brought some friends. Hi,” Dawn said, her tone light and unburdened, as if the weight of the world she was about to inherit did not yet touch her.

  Laila’s smile warmed the air. “This is your father,” she said, gesturing to Max. “Your uncles,” she continued, indicating Wylan and Lambert, “and your auntie,” she finished, nodding toward Isabella.

  Dawn’s eyes widened with wonder, her gaze moving across each face. “You look so strange. Have you come to play?”

  “In a way,” Isabella replied, her voice unusually gentle, a soft edge of humour in her tone. “In a way, yes.”

  “Play? What game are we going to play? I’m so excited! I’ve been here so long,” Dawn exclaimed, her voice rising with warmth that filled the chamber.

  Wylan stepped forward, his smile playful but measured. “We’ll call this ‘Who Will Be the Queen?’”

  Dawn’s curiosity deepened, her head tilting slightly. “What’s a queen?”

  ? The precise job description of a queen has baffled philosophers for centuries, mainly because it seems to involve wearing uncomfortable headgear and smiling at people you’ve never met. The perks, however, include excellent seating arrangements.

  “A queen is somebody who is never alone,” Wylan explained. “She has lots of friends to talk to.”

  Dawn’s eyes lit up, the idea sparking like a candle in her mind. “Oh, I like this game!”

  “But a queen also gets to be in charge and be responsible for a lot of people,” Wylan added, the seriousness woven carefully into his words.

  Dawn considered this. “Is being responsible fun?”

  “It can be challenging,” Wylan said, “but it’s very rewarding.”

  Dawn’s expression grew thoughtful. “How do you play?”

  “Well,” Wylan said, “a queen sits on a throne and wears a crown.” He extended the Solar Diadem toward her, its light catching the chamber’s glow in a soft, almost celestial shimmer.

  Dawn took the Diadem in her small hands and placed it atop her head. “This is a crown? It looks funny. Where do you get it?”

  Isabella stepped closer, her voice steady and kind. “There was once an evil king who made choices—or was going to make choices—that weren’t very nice. Someone who didn’t like to play games by the rules.”

  Dawn nodded solemnly. “How do I be queen?”

  “You love your subjects, and your subjects love you,” Wylan said simply, kneeling to meet her gaze.

  “So, you get to watch over not just us, but everyone in the city of Pharelle,” Laila added, her voice soft but certain.

  “And everyone in the world,” Wylan finished. “You’ll never be lonely again.”

  Dawn’s eyes sparkled with awe. “Is that like 10 people?”

  “It’s even bigger,” Laila reassured her. “Even bigger than that.”

  Dawn blinked, the weight of the words settling into her small but growing understanding. “Oh, that’s a lot of people.”

  “So basically,” Wylan said with a grin, “you’re just going to be a nice person.”

  “I like being a nice person,” Dawn replied, her smile lighting the room.

  “And you don’t actually have to watch over everyone all at once,” Laila added gently. “You can watch over certain people as you wish.”

  “There are other kings and queens up there,” Wylan said, his tone reassuring. “I actually know one of them. Her name is Lilith. I’ll put in a good word for you—I think she’d love to play with you.”

  Maximilian stepped forward then, his voice trembling with emotion. “Dawn? Hi, Dawn. I’m Maximilian. Do you recognise me?”

  “You’re my daddy!” Dawn exclaimed; her joy as radiant as the dreamscape’s light.

  Maximilian knelt, his voice thick with feeling. “I’m so very proud of you, Dawn. You’re going to do something amazing. We’re going to play this game of queens. You’re going to sit on this lovely chair and wear a pretty crown.”

  Isabella’s eyes lit up with sudden excitement. “Oh! I have the exact crown!” she exclaimed, producing the Crown of the Sun King with a dramatic flourish.

  Maximilian blinked, a wry smile forming as he stood. “Pass the Flame of Hyperion to me,” he said with authority, his gaze moving to Lambert. “If anyone is going to transfer a fire to her, it should be me. And Lambert,” he added, his tone measured but firm, “I think it best if you crown her. It has just the right amount of pomp, ceremony, and symbolism.”

  Wylan stepped forward, holding the lantern that contained the Flame of Hyperion. With a careful motion, he handed it to Maximilian, who accepted it with a nod.

  The flame rose from the lantern at his command, floating above his palm like a living ember. Maximilian stared at it, this fragment of divinity, this impossible fire that had once belonged to a god.

  He thought of Aurora. Not Dawn, but the baby sleeping in Greta’s arms back in the waking world. The child who had carried a goddess inside her without knowing it. The Fates had made their bargain clear: Dawn would ascend, and Aurora would live. But she would live ordinarily. No destiny. No greatness. No throne, no legend, no place in the histories that would remember this night.

  His daughter would grow up safe. She would skin her knees and learn to read and fall in love with someone who had no idea her family had once remade the sun. She would be happy, and mortal, and utterly unremarkable.

  It was everything he wanted for her. It broke his heart anyway.

  She could have been a Hero, he thought. She had the fire for it. She had the blood.

  But Heroes died young, or lived long enough to become cautionary tales. He had seen what greatness cost, had watched it consume his father, had felt it pulling at his own edges ever since he’d inherited the duchy. Aurora would never carry that weight. She would never have to.

  Maximilian drew a slow breath. When he spoke, his voice was steady, though something in his eyes glistened.

  “I’m proud of you,” he said softly to Dawn. “I need you to know that. Whatever you become—wherever you go—you are loved.”

  Dawn smiled up at him, radiant and trusting. “I know, Daddy.”

  Lambert moved to take the crown, his expression serious as he positioned himself behind and above Dawn. The weight of the moment intensified as he stood poised, the Crown of the Sun King glinting faintly in his hands.

  Maximilian lowered the flame towards Dawn, its glow reflecting in her innocent eyes. At the same moment, Lambert gently placed the crown upon her head. The two gestures converged seamlessly, the passing of the flame and the coronation occurring as one, a perfect synchrony of light, ceremony, and purpose.

  As Dawn accepted the Flame, the room held its breath. Time itself paused, the shimmering dreamscape freezing in place as though the very fabric of reality had decided to watch. And then it truly stopped.

  For everyone except Laila.

  The dreamscape’s muted hues deepened, shadows stretching and twisting as three figures materialised beside her and Dawn. They stood apart from the frozen tableau, their presence vast and intimate all at once, each embodying a profound force beyond comprehension.

  A figure stepped forward first, broad shoulders cloaked in flowing gold, his eyes filled with the weight of time and consequence. His voice, steady and rich, carried the gravity of inevitability. “We are the three Fates,” he proclaimed, his tone resonating with a timeless authority. “I am Anatropy, keeper of what is. Beside me stands Onetropy, shaper of what may be. And Entropy, who marks the end of all things.”

  His gaze assessed Laila with the weight of countless decisions carried through eternity. “We have come because this is no ordinary moment. Such choices come only with purpose—and with a price.”

  Laila’s breath caught, her gaze flicking nervously to Dawn, who remained blissfully unaware of the exchange. “A price? What kind of price?” Her voice trembled slightly. “Is it—” she hesitated, glancing again at her granddaughter. “Is it for her?”

  Onetropy spoke first, his form shimmering with a nebulous brilliance, his angular features pale and luminous, his eyes twin stars filled with stories untold. He radiated an otherworldly charm, his voice carrying the cadence of a half-remembered song. “Laila,” he began, his tone equal parts curiosity and authority, “Are you certain this is the choice you wish for her? To create a new god is, after all, partly my domain. Gods are stories made flesh, and flesh made myth.” His lips curved into a faint smile, his gaze flicking toward Dawn. “And what a story she will be.”

  The light of the dreamscape shifted subtly as Onetropy’s words settled, casting Dawn’s small figure in an otherworldly glow. Laila’s hands clenched at her sides, the enormity of the moment pressing heavily on her.

  Anatropy spoke again. “This decision will irrevocably alter her fate,” he intoned. “She will no longer be destined for greatness. Her path will diverge, leading her to an ordinary life, away from the extraordinary.” He paused, his gaze meeting Laila’s. “Is that the life you wish for her?”

  Laila’s breath hitched as she considered his words. An ordinary life. No thrones, no crowns, no divine burdens. She looked at Dawn, the child’s innocence untouched by the gravity of the moment. A smile softened her features. “Yes,” she murmured, her voice firm. “I think an ordinary life sounds just about perfect.”

  Finally, Entropy moved to stand beside her siblings. Draped in simple black, her presence carried a quiet power that resonated deeply. Her face was serene yet marked by a faint, bittersweet sadness. She said nothing, but her eyes held Laila’s, speaking volumes in the silence. In that instant, Laila understood.

  A price would be paid.

  Laila nodded, the weight of the revelation settling over her like a shroud. She turned back to the three Fates, her resolve steady. “I’m ready,” she said softly. “For her, I would pay anything.”

  The Fates lingered for a moment longer, their forms shimmering with the surreal logic of the dreamscape. Then, as if satisfied, they began to fade, leaving Laila alone once more in the stillness of the frozen dream. Time resumed, and the light of the Flame of Hyperion pulsed gently in Dawn’s small hands, waiting for the ritual to continue.

  As the Flame of Hyperion passed to Dawn, a transformation began. The flame rippled as it touched her hands, its golden glow threading through her small fingers like liquid sunlight. The air around her shifted, becoming warmer, brighter, almost unbearable to behold. Then, with a flash of brilliance, the Flame surged into her, disappearing into the core of her being. Her body trembled, not with fear, but with the sheer intensity of the divine power now coursing through her.

  The Sun Crown upon her head started to shift, its form losing definition as it melted into light. The crown sank into her, merging seamlessly with her essence. Moments later, the light re-emerged, encircling her head as a radiant halo, pulsing softly like a second sun. The dreamscape responded in kind: the clouds grew luminous, and the walls of the castle shimmered with renewed vitality, reflecting the nascent divinity within her.

  The group stood in awe, unable to look away from the child now transformed. The warmth emanating from her was not just physical; it was the warmth of life, creation, and an undeniable sense of hope. Dawn’s small frame seemed weightless, her feet barely touching the shifting floor beneath her as the light lifted and enfolded her.

  Dawn’s laughter was soft, like sunlight breaking through clouds, but the energy in the room had grown intense. Flames coiled around her, lifting and fuelling her with divine fire. Threads of light arced into the heavens, connecting above and below. The transmutation circle glowed brilliantly. And yet something was wrong.

  “She’s filled with divinity, but she’s not letting go. I don’t understand,” Wylan muttered, confusion knitting his brow.

  Lambert stood apart, watching the threads of light strain and tear. Dawn was ascending. He could feel it, the pull of something vast and radiant reaching down to claim her. But she remained tethered. Bound to the mortal child she had shared a body with. The connection that had sheltered her was now a chain, and the chain was killing them both.

  To be born, he thought, something must first be released.

  The understanding settled into him with the weight of liturgy. He had spent his life studying the sun: its light, its warmth, its promise of renewal. But he was not only a child of the sun. He was Lampetia’s son, born of shadow and ancient hunger. He had walked through the Sepulchre, knelt at Hyperion’s tomb, felt the cold touch of the Umbra against his soul. He knew death as intimately as he knew prayer.

  And here, at the birth of a god, death was what was needed.

  Lambert stepped forward. His family watched, uncomprehending, as he raised his hands and reached not for light but for ending. The prayer that left his lips was not to Invictus, not to Dawn, but to the quiet that waited at the end of all things.

  An illusory sickle formed in his grasp, faint and ethereal, more shadow than substance. It felt like holding winter. It felt like holding peace.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered, to Aurora, to Dawn, to whatever part of them could still hear him.

  And with a single, merciful stroke, he severed the final threads.

  Dawn’s laughter transformed into radiance. The tethers fell away like morning mist, and she rose, not the child, not anymore, but something vast and golden and impossibly warm. Radiant fire consumed the space where she had stood, and the dream world began to tremble, its foundations unable to contain a god.

  Laila turned to her children. “You need to go now. This place is collapsing,” she said, her voice firm but laced with an ache she couldn’t suppress. Moving swiftly, she embraced them one by one, those she had birthed and those she had adopted, each a piece of her heart.

  Maximilian was already turning toward the portal. “There’s no time for this, Mother. We can celebrate later.” He didn’t see the weight in her eyes, too focused on escape to recognise a farewell.

  She nodded, unwilling to let her words betray her. Isabella, always steady, took charge. “We’ll see you on the other side,” she promised, her tone brimming with certainty as she ushered everyone through the portal.

  Laila stood alone, watching her children vanish into the real world. Tears burned at the edges of her resolve, but she held them back. Turning to the radiant figure of Dawn, she smiled.

  “Are we going somewhere new?” Dawn asked, her voice filled with wonder.

  Laila reached out, taking her hand. “I think so. But we’ll find out together, shall we?” With that, they stepped into the light, ready to face the unknown.

  They started walking off together, but ahead, a figure stood on the side of the path. Its presence was quiet yet immense, as though the universe itself held its breath.

  “Dawn, sweetie, wait here a moment. Grandmother needs to take care of something first,” Laila said gently, conjuring an enchanting illusion to keep the child distracted. Dawn’s delighted laughter bubbled up as the shimmering forms of playful creatures took shape around her.

  Laila approached the figure, the one introduced to her as Entropy. Her form was serene, draped in a cloak of shadow that absorbed light rather than reflected it. Her face held no malice, only quiet understanding.

  “So, what happens now?” Laila asked, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest.

  Entropy tilted her head slightly, considering. “You know, I’m not completely sure. This is my first time.”

  Laila’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Oh, well, I guess there’s a first time for everything. What about everyone else?”

  Entropy’s gaze softened. “They are dying, and they are moving on. But you’re the first one I needed to come and collect personally.”

  Laila’s breath caught at the weight of the words, but she kept her composure. “I see. Mind if I ask you a question?”

  Entropy inclined her head. “You can ask, but there are some things I cannot answer.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?” Laila’s tone was calm, though her eyes searched for something more.

  “It makes no difference, really,” Entropy replied.

  Laila exhaled slowly, accepting the answer. “Fine. Was all this necessary? What would have happened if we didn’t act in time? If we failed to replace Invictus?”

  Entropy’s gaze deepened, her presence growing heavier. Her tone shifted, taking on a resonance that felt ancient and immutable. “Ah, then the Sun would have perished, and Agony, the house of its divinity, would have stood hollow. In its place would stand a luminous orb, adrift and unanchored in purpose. Time would have continued, its relentless march unbroken, but it would have carried no Reason.”

  Laila’s eyes narrowed slightly, her curiosity sharpening. “No Reason? But wouldn’t the sun still shine? Wouldn’t life continue?”

  Entropy inclined her head slightly, the gesture measured. “Not no light. Not no life. But no Reason. As Ecstasy cradles Rhyme, so does Agony carry Reason. They are not mere functions but the why of the world. Without them, existence persists, but its soul is lost. The silence becomes a weight, not an absence.”

  Laila’s shoulders eased, though her expression remained thoughtful. “So at least we did something meaningful?”

  Entropy’s reply was neutral. “You acted. Meaning is a creation of the living. Goodness is an invention of mortal minds. I merely come after.”

  Laila turned back to Dawn, her smile softening as she took the child’s hand. Together, they began to walk into the horizon, their figures growing smaller against the vast, shifting dreamscape. The light ahead shimmered with promise, an endless path unfolding before them as they moved forward, step by step.

  Entropy remained behind, standing motionless in the dreamscape’s surreal stillness. For a moment, the space held its breath, as though reluctant to let them go. Then, with a slow gesture, Entropy raised her shadowed hand, and snapped her fingers. The light in the dreamscape dimmed, fading into a profound and peaceful darkness. When the last glimmers disappeared, the dream was no more, and all that remained was silence.

  On the other side of the portal, the family emerged into the waking world, stepping into Alexios” Library. Greta sat in a corner, Aurora nestled in her arms, the baby awake and bubbling with happiness. Nearby, Laila lay on a makeshift bed, her still form illuminated by the soft glow of dawn filtering through the high windows. Maximilian’s attention immediately turned to Aurora. Lambert approached, placing a gentle hand on her forehead. “For all I can tell, she’s now a happy, healthy, ordinary baby girl,” he said, his voice filled with relief.

  Their shared relief swelled as dawn began to break. In the heavens above, the sphere of Agony erupted with renewed brilliance, its radiant light flooding the horizon. The Pendulum was just beginning its return swing. Its mirror caught the rays, scattering them in a cascade of gold and silver across the city. The Caul of Night began to dissipate, its oppressive shadow unravelling into the ether. Streets that had been shrouded in terror and despair filled with light and life once more.

  From the manor, cheers and joyous cries erupted as the household took in the first sunrise in what felt like an eternity. Servants embraced one another, their laughter and tears mingling as the sound of church bells carried from the city below. In the great hall, wine was poured and voices rose in song, and for the first time in days, hope felt tangible.

  But the siblings had not joined the celebration. They stood in the library, caught between relief and a growing unease none of them could name.

  It was Isabella who spoke first. “She should be awake by now.”

  Maximilian moved to the makeshift bed, concern creeping into his expression. “Mum,” he said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “It’s morning. We’re safe now.”

  She didn’t stir.

  “Mum.” Louder this time. He shook her shoulder gently. Nothing.

  A cold, hollow realisation began to take root as he glanced back at his siblings.

  The soft light of dawn painted her face in gentle hues, making her look as though she might wake at any moment. But the stillness in the room told another story.

  Lambert moved quickly, his hand glowing faintly with divine power as he stepped forward. He pressed his hand to her forehead, his prayers tumbling out in a quiet, urgent rush.

  But her body was cold and still, beyond healing.

  Wylan’s voice broke, trembling with desperation. “Wake up, Mum. Wake up...”