The war had ended, not with a roar, but with a heartbeat ceasing—his. The earth, which once trembled beneath the weight of countless battles, now lay unnervingly still. No thunder cracked the sky. No winds howled in mourning. The blood-soaked fields, heavy with history, shimmered with an eerie calm, as if the realms themselves had decided to forget.
But Lyra remembered.
She stood amidst the shattered remnants of the battlefield, Raven's body cooling in her arms. His blood, now dry, stained her skin—an imprint of betrayal she could never wash away. The Forgotten King was gone, vanished like a ghost who had never truly been. No one could remember his face, not even those who had once spoken his name in fear. As though the cost of his defeat was not just Raven's life—but the very memory of the threat he posed.
The witches retreated into the mountains. The soldiers laid down their arms. The air was still and suspiciously clean, as if war had only been a fever dream.
But Lyra—she could not rest.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it. Her hand. The blade. Raven's expression—not of fear, but of understanding. She had been the instrument. He had known it. Had he forgiven her before the final strike? Or had he simply surrendered to fate?
She wandered through her realm like a ghost in her own skin. Applauded. Adored. Named the savior of the realm. The girl who killed the boy who loved her. The one who ended the prophecy. They called her "Lightbringer." But she felt nothing but ash inside.
Lyra did not hate herself. That would've been easier. What burned her soul was the truth—that love wasn't enough. That even soul-bound hearts could be torn apart by fate's cruel hands. She had felt Raven's soul snap like a thread pulled too tight. That sound echoed louder than any battlefield scream.
Weeks passed.
The flowers returned. The sun rose earlier. The people danced.
And Lyra packed her bags in silence.
She did not speak of her journey, only left a letter sealed with the sigil of her family. She was leaving not for vengeance, nor out of despair—but purpose. Raven's death had not broken the cycle. It had merely paused it. She had felt it—that awful pull. The way her blood still stirred when the wind whispered wrong. The prophecy was a pattern, an endless loop. Next time, it wouldn't be her. It would be someone else. Another love. Another war.
Unless...
She could stop it.
And so she sought out the old paths. Forgotten temples buried beneath snow-capped cliffs. Caves swallowed by night and silence. Writings older than language, magic carved into the bones of the world. She endured poison dreams and mirage-filled deserts. Her soul screamed with each step, but her eyes never lost focus.
Lyra wanted to seal the Forgotten King. Not just erase him. But trap his soul beyond the reach of time, where no dream, no whisper, no spell could ever unearth him again.
She was alone, but not lost.
She met a seer whose eyes were sewn shut, who fed on moonlight and could hear the screams of unborn generations. He told her the truth: "To seal a soul so ancient, yours must be cracked open. Not destroyed—but reshaped. What once loved must now become the cage."
She thanked him and walked into the fire.
Every night she still dreamed of Raven. Not in manipulation. Not in pain. But in memory. In how he used to whisper her name like a secret. In how he looked at her like she was the only star in an endless sky. She didn't cry anymore. The tears had dried somewhere between guilt and duty.
Her journey was not yet complete. But her resolve had become unbreakable.
If she had to be the villain in every story to come—so be it. If love had to die so that the world might live—so be it.
The silence Raven left behind wasn't empty. It was filled with her vow.
To make sure no one else would ever have to love only to lose. To hold only to shatter. To kill the one thing they were born to protect.