The world did not mourn Raven.
It simply continued, too quiet. The sky held its breath, and the wind no longer danced. The two realms, once set ablaze by war and prophecy, stood as though nothing had ever been broken. The scars remained—but they no longer bled. Only Lyra did.
She had returned to her realm, but not to herself. The cheers that welcomed her victory—if it could be called that—sounded like knives scraping stone. The Forgotten King had vanished with Raven's final breath, as if satisfied with the ending. As if that had always been the point.
Lyra saw through it all. The peace, the illusions, the hollow smiles.
She did not belong in a world that pretended not to notice the blood on her hands. A world that had buried Raven before his body even grew cold in her arms. That cursed love, and praised prophecy. That called her savior, when she had murdered the only person who had ever truly seen her.
So she left.
Not in rage. Not even in grief. But with a calm resolve sharper than any blade she had drawn in battle.
Her journey began in the east, where the earth still cracked from ancient wars. The witches watched her pass in silence. Even the stars dimmed their glow. Her footsteps were quiet, but the magic in her veins—tainted now, reshaped by the Forgotten King's touch—whispered with every step. She didn't know where she was going. Only that she would keep walking until she found the power to end it all. To sever the Forgotten King from time itself. To ensure this cycle never repeated.
She no longer wanted revenge.
She wanted finality.
---
In the ruins of an abandoned temple swallowed by vines, she found the first whisper of hope.
The walls were carved with runes older than memory. They pulsed faintly, as though recognizing her. A spirit lingered there—hazy, faceless, but ancient.
"Why do you carry his death like a crown?" it asked.
Lyra touched the center of her chest, where Raven's blood had stained her. "Because love should not end in prophecy."
The spirit laughed—a brittle sound. "Many have tried to rewrite fate. All were forgotten."
"I don't need to rewrite it," she whispered. "I only need to seal the one who wrote it."
---
The second encounter came in the north, where frost never thawed. There, deep beneath a frozen lake, a creature stirred. It had no name—only a scream. Lyra faced it, wrapped in the thin warmth of magic and memory. It lunged, sensing her brokenness. She let it come.
She didn't fight.
Not at first.
The creature's chaos tried to consume her, its energy thick with despair and the echo of a thousand lost voices. But at the edge of the drowning, she heard something.
A familiar hum.
Raven's lullaby. The one he had once sung—not with words, but with his presence.
It was not truly him. But it was enough.
She rose from the lake with frost in her hair and fire in her spine. The creature lay still behind her. It had given her something—not peace, but understanding:
She would never heal.
But she could protect others from her wound.
---
At night, the dreams returned.
Not of Raven dying, but of Raven living. In them, he smiled like the war never touched him. He reached for her like he still trusted her. Sometimes she reached back. Other times she screamed. Woke with blood on her tongue.
The Forgotten King was no longer in her dreams. But his fingerprints remained.
He had taken what mattered most.
So she would take everything from him.
---
In the mountains of the dead—where no sound existed—she found the witch.
Not alive. Not fully dead. Suspended in a kind of in-between.
"Why are you here?" Lyra asked.
The witch opened her eyes, black as the void.
"To wait for you."
Her voice was smoke and thunder.
"There is a magic that can seal him. But it is not a weapon. It is a cost."
Lyra nodded. "I've already paid the first half."
The witch reached for her, pressing a hand to her temple. Visions bled into Lyra's mind: A ritual lost to time. A door between worlds. A life bound to silence.
"You will not die," the witch said. "But you will not live either. Not as you are."
Lyra did not flinch.
"Then I will become something else."
---
She continued walking.
And the world watched. Not in fear. Not in admiration. But in reverent, quiet dread.
The girl who killed the one she loved.
The girl who dared to chase the end of fate.
The girl who would become the seal.