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LIORA

I ’ve run from this long enough.

From the pulse of magic in my veins that doesn’t play by anyone’s rules. From the prophecy that tried to chain me to fate. From the eyes of people who expected me to fall apart—or explode.

But no more.

I stretch with the dawn curled against Dante’s chest, his heartbeat steady under my cheek, like a promise whispered straight to my bones. He doesn’t move when I slip away, leaving him in the lush grass and shadows of the lilacs. He doesn’t need to.

He knows I’m not leaving this time.

Not to hide. Not to run. Only to rise.

The courtyard behind Dante’s loft is still half-shadowed by early morning haze, dew silvering the blades of grass and clinging to the worn cobblestones like fragile lace.

But there’s nothing fragile about what’s building here.

The rebels— our army now—move through the thickening air with quiet precision. Some drink black coffee, steam curling past faces that have seen too much. Others oil blades, check sigils, run their fingers along the chalk outlines on the loft’s windows and doorframes, re-etching runes like they’re inscribing prayers into stone.

They don’t look at me with fear anymore.

They glance up as I pass. They nod. They acknowledge.

Good.

I’m done shrinking. Done pretending I’m not something more.

I walk barefoot to the center of the compound. Let the wet grass cool my fever-hot skin. The soil here still holds the scars of what I did, even if it wasn’t in this place, the cratered edge of power that nearly tore the world.

I kneel\ and sink my fingers into the earth. It feels different this time. Not scorched. Ready. It waits beneath me like something ancient and alive. Like it knows what’s coming. Like it’s listening.

So I call.

Not in English. Not in Fae. But in something older.

I call to the magic buried under the bones of this realm. To the bloodlines that remember war. To the threads of light and shadow still knotted into the fabric of the Veil.

I speak in the tongues my ancestors gave me—starborn and spellforged—and I say:

Come.

They arrive within hours.

First the witches—storm-wreathed and solemn. A coven from the Northern Blight, their faces streaked with windburn, their tattoos glowing blue like phosphorescence. Some wear furs. Others bear blades. All carry ancient power that smells like salt and snow and lightning on the skin.

Then come the shifters—two packs, one lean and dark-clawed, the other gray-furred and sun-eyed. They greet Dante like a brother long lost, bowing their heads with guilt and resolve. They circle the perimeter, reestablishing ground lines and protective wards with snarls low in their throats.

Then the rogue fae arrive—silent and ethereal, barely brushing the edges of the physical world. They wear glamour like second skin and shadows like armor. Their eyes gleam silver and violet and starlit gold, and when they look at me, they bow.

Because they recognize what I am.

And finally, the elders.

A fae lord with hollow eyes who hasn’t walked among mortals in centuries, his voice like wind across tombstones. A vampire queen wrapped in silk and smoke, silver braiding her dark hair and blood drying in the corners of her mouth like warpaint. A warlock whose shadow arrives before he does, stitched together by oaths no one dares name.

They do not kneel. But they stay. That’s enough. Because they all come for me. Not because of what I might unmake . But because of what I might protect. And It steadies me instead of terrifies me.

At dusk, the circle is ready.

A ritual ward near the edge of the compound—half protection, half declaration. A line drawn in magic and blood and truth.

I step inside it.

The whispers start immediately, brushing against the air like moth wings:

“She’s the one…”

“The balance-breaker…”

“Starborn shadow…”

They echo like lullabies turned threats. But I don’t flinch.

Dante stands just on the other side of the circle, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes locked on me like I’m both salvation and a cliff’s edge.

I don’t blame him. Neither of us knows what I’m becoming.

But for once, I’m not afraid to find out and I want to accept it.

Mara steps forward, hood down, braid coiled tight behind her shoulder. “Are you sure?” she asks, quiet.

“No,” I say honestly. “But I will be.”

She nods, then gestures to the tall figure beside her—one of the rogue fae who arrived at dawn, a male with coal-black eyes and a golden mark etched down the center of his throat. His name is Cael. He hasn’t spoken all day. But now, as he steps into the circle opposite Mara, he murmurs in Old Fae, “Begin.”

Mara slices her palm first, blood dripping to the sigils carved into the stone ring. They flare blue, licking up around the circle in a shimmering, protective blaze. Cael follows, his blood glowing faintly silver.

The circle ignites. And I let go.

I let the shadows rise first—soft and coiling, velvet-black tendrils whispering up from my spine. They flicker with edges and memory, cool and dangerous and mine.

Then I call the light.

Not the wildfire it used to be. Not a scream.

Now it rises like a sunrise—slow and golden and steady. It pours from my chest like a tide.

And for the first time ever, I merge them.

Star and shadow. Light and dark. Celestial and fae.

I become.

And when I open my eyes, the circle isn’t glowing.

I am.

Dante steps into the ring. No hesitation.

The fire of the ward licks at his boots, but it doesn’t stop him. Nothing does.

He walks straight through the magic like he was born to. And when he reaches me—his hands already glowing where my power brushes his skin—I reach up, grab his collar and I kiss him.

Not just for comfort. Not just for heat. For bonding. For claiming. For anchoring what’s left of my soul to something that still makes me human.

He kisses me back like the war can wait. Like I’m not glowing like a dying star in his arms. Like we’ve got a thousand lifetimes left to finish what we started.

When we break apart, he’s still glowing—faint, gold. Just where I touched him.

Some of me lives in him now. It’s always been there.

We turn together, hands linked, facing the army that waits outside the circle.

Wolves. Witches. Vampires. Fae. Warlocks. Beings bound by oath and fury and fear. Some of them will die for me.

Most of them don’t care.

They’ll die for the chance to stop Seraphiel.

I raise my chin.

“We’re not waiting for him to strike,” I say, voice clear across the crowd. “We take this war to him. ”

Someone calls from the back, rough and tired: “And if we lose?”

I meet every gaze. No trembling. No lies.

“Then we burn it all down together as long as he burns with it.”

Because if I fall, Seraphiel falls with me and that’s the important part.

And the stars will know we went down fighting.