The ground was soaked in blood and broken spells. The air trembled with screams and spells cast in desperation. Smoke curled into the skies, turning day into dusk. Lyra stood in the center of it all, bathed in the chaos—unmoving, yet trembling beneath her skin.
Around her, witches fell. Warriors cried out. Magic spun wildly, as if the realm itself was unraveling. Her presence was different—warped. Her eyes, once full of light, now burned gold laced with something darker. Something ancient.
Raven broke through the fray. He fought with every part of himself to reach her. His robes were torn, one arm bloodied, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.
"Lyra!" he shouted, his voice hoarse from screaming spells and her name. "It's me! Look at me!"
For a second, she did.
Something flickered.
Recognition.
Pain.
Hope.
But the shadow loomed behind her—the Forgotten King, veiled in smoke and magic. His eyes, cold stars buried in night. He did not move, yet his presence was everywhere. Whispers crawled into Lyra's ears like vines tightening around her soul.
"He will leave you like before."
"He'll forget you, betray you, let you burn."
"Strike first. End it before he does."
Her body moved against her will.
Her fingers conjured the blade—twisted and cruel, formed from her own corrupted magic.
"No," she whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks. "No, this isn't me… I can't… I won't—"
But the magic responded not to her voice, but the seed the Forgotten King had planted.
Raven saw the blade.
He stopped.
Then he stepped forward. One step. Then another. Slowly. Brave. Gentle.
"It's okay," he said softly, as if talking to a frightened animal. "I know you're in there. Lyra… I love you. You don't have to fight alone."
Something inside her cracked. Her hands trembled violently.
But the King's whispers drowned everything else.
"He lies."
"He always has."
"Finish it."
And she did.
The blade surged forward, a scream caught in her throat. Time slowed, stretched, bent in agony.
Raven didn't move.
He didn't defend.
He took it. All of it.
Straight through his chest.
The sound it made wasn't loud. Just a soft tear—like cloth ripped in the wind.
Her scream broke after.
"RAVEN!"
He collapsed into her arms.
His blood soaked her hands. Her dress. Her skin. Her soul.
She clutched him desperately. Her magic flickering wildly now, unstable.
"No, no, please—Raven, please, I didn't mean to—I couldn't stop—I…"
He smiled through the pain. Still.
Even with blood bubbling at his lips.
"You're… still in there…" he whispered, eyes barely open. "I… see you…"
His hand found her face, thumb brushing a tear.
"It wasn't… your fault… Never… was…"
And then he was gone.
The warmth drained from his body in seconds.
Her sobs shook the skies.
The witches watching fell silent.
Even the wounded gasped in horror.
The Forgotten King stood still, a satisfied smile carved across his face.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Lyra cradled Raven's lifeless body, rocking back and forth as if motion alone could call his soul back.
But there was no miracle. No prophecy to save them now.
Only a silence that thundered louder than any scream.
And a King who had finally severed the bond that dared defy fate.