The courtyard did not bleed anymore.Neither did it bloom.Miyal alone stood under the blackened tree, its branches twisted like burned ribs against the parchment-colored sky. Ash rustled with the wind, racing along the stone. The garden Krishna had begun to plant stayed stagnant,no green, no shoot. Only waiting ground.And Krishna was not there.She hadn't given Miyal the farewell she'd wanted. No hug goodbye. No final look. Only a silent leave at dawn, a voice on the wind:"Only when the roots are strong enough without me."But the roots still trembled for Miyal.And every morning, she'd catch herself waiting to hear footsteps. For the sound of Krishna's robes. For her laughter."Coward," Miyal growled at the empty space. "You ran again.The wind rustled but had nothing to say. A shard of moon-glass slid across the tile courtyard, snagging in the fold of her robe."I asked you to remain," Miyal said, her voice breaking. "I pleaded with you."Her words bounced back off charred walls
The air in the courtyard had cooled.Twilight hung over the cracked stone like a veil. Lanterns danced in iron sconces, sending halos of golden light scurrying across the roots of the dead tree, now ringed by fresh soil and small, persistent green shoots.Miyal stood under the leaning archway of the inner hall. Her staff rested heavily on her shoulder, bound in old bandages, every one of them stained with some fragment of the war she could never wash off. Her hair had been hacked off short, roughly scorched in spots. Her robes were mended with fabric ripped from burial shrouds.She regarded Krishna from afar.And Krishna… knelt once more, alone at the base of the memory tree.Digging.Planting.Watering.As if that one thing repeated every night since the battle could wash away forgiveness to a soil damp with screams.Miyal crept toward him.She stopped only a few feet away from him, her voice cracked. "You never rest."Krishna didn't turn."Neither do ghosts."There was silence betwe
Whole families forgot each other in the middle of a hug.The plague was no longer death. It was forgetting.And Perfera stoked it with joy."Every memory that loved her—every whisper that disobeyed me—vanished," she sang. "Let the world recall only me."Krishna walked through it all.Her feet scalded the rot.A monster attacked her throat she touched it once, and it burned to white ash.She met rebels along the way starved, battered, bloodied and held up not to command but to heal. A girl who had lost a leg reached out and touched Krishna's robes and screamed as bones mend once more.A blinded boy blinked. "I… I see…"Whispers spread quicker than death."She's real…""She's back.""She's going for the throne."At the entrance of the throne room, Miyal stumbled.She had seen the bodies. The terror. The murals defiled with Perfera's visage. The charred chandeliers shrouded with the robes of dead priestesses.Her wind was taken."I helped her," Miyal panted. "I did this."Krishna rested
The space had been carved out of obsidian and bone.In its center: Miyal Rhax, tied to an altar of moonroot and salt, her limbs loose but vibrating with lingering magic. Her eyes fluttering. Her fingers twitching.The spell that encased her was beginning to shatter.Perfera tread carefully. Her presence cooled the temperature of the room. The guards stiffened where she entered, but no one dared speak.Miyal stirred.Then spoke."…Krishna…"Perfera's jaw clenched."Still daydreaming about your broken Luna?" she reminded him, tone glass balanced at breaking point. "How sweet."Miyal's eyes flashed open.They were burning."You should have killed me when I was a child.""You weren't worth the hassle then."The chains clanked as Miyal pulled against them gently at first, then with increasing strength. The salt on the ground steamed under the soles of her feet."I remember now," she sneered. "I remember the day you polluted my father's blood. The day you reduced the Elders to their bellies
Because he knew he knew this was her fate.And not his.He had raised her bones, called storms to sew her heart back up, pleaded gods and ghosts and monsters one and all to give back her soul. But he could not tread this road with her. Not now. Not where she was headed.He finally raised his head.His eyes were bloodshot, wide, afire."I did everything," he breathed hoarsely, "to protect you."Krishna's voice shook. "And I am so thankful. But love that traps isn't love. It's fear."A long silence stretched between them thick and scorching. The storm outside raged on, mirroring the sorrow neither was brave enough to speak aloud.Ignatius bowed his head once more.Not in defeat.In reverence.Because he did not see her anymore as the girl who had cried in his arms, not as the phoenix he'd brought back from ashes but as what she had been all along.The Luna.The storm-walker.The revenge of rivers and roots.And not her keeper.Just the man who loved her."Go," he whispered, his voice br
The bramble wall re-coalesced behind her, roots curled like fingers, imprisoning Brunschière once again.Jessa spun.And wept.Not the soft weeping of accepted loss but the guttural, cruel sobs of a woman still attempting to barter with destiny. She dropped to her knees, arms wrapped about the fever-warm child, holding him to her breast like the gods themselves might take him from her if she let him go.Wind shrieked over the dying hills. Salt scalded the air. Somewhere behind her, a raw, gurgling shriek was cut off in a sound too wet to be anything but final."Why?" she panted, her voice torn. "Why us? Why here?"The boy quivered weakly. His green eyes, now rimmed with gray. He reached out, touched her face."Mama's gone," he whispered. "Aren't you going too?"Jessa snapped.She kissed his forehead, sobbing harder, shaking her head even as her lips trembled with a lie.“No. No, baby. I’m staying. I’ll never leave you. We’ll.we’ll find a way.”But even as she spoke, her vision blurred