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RHAEGAR

T he air shifts as we cross the threshold.

The silence that follows the Purnas’ retreat is not peace. It is a pause. A breath before something ancient exhales. The ruins stretch out before us, broken teeth of marble and obsidian swallowed by ash. But at the heart of it—where the earth dips into a sunken bowl of stone—stands the artifact.

It is not what I expected.

No glimmering weapon. No throne of power. It’s... a spire of bone and obsidian, coiled in glyphs that move, slithering like serpents trapped beneath glass. Light pulses at its core—blood red, like a wound refusing to close. And standing in a half-circle around it, unmoving, are the Wraithborn.

Guardians. Sentinels. Corpses wearing war.

I keep my steps slow, controlled, but already the bones in my spine feel like they’re splintering. The artifact sings to the part of me that is not wholly alive. My joints ache. My wings twitch, frayed and twitching from the pressure. Every inch closer sends another shock through my ruined body, like I’m unraveling thread by thread.

Nora moves ahead of me—quiet, steady.

“They’re letting her through,” I say under my breath.

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are locked on the spire, her expression dazed. Not vacant—no, something darker. Almost reverent.

The Wraithborn shift. Their heads turn in unison, ignoring me completely now. It’s her they want. Her they recognize.

I grit my teeth. “Stop, Nora. Don’t go any closer.”

She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even flinch.

Her hand rises, slow as molasses in winter, reaching for the center of the spire where the light pulses brightest. Her steps falter just as her fingers near the surface—but the hum in the air grows unbearable.

I stumble. My knees hit the ash.

Something is tearing inside me. The part of me that still remembers honor, restraint, control. The gargoyle... the thing I was sculpted into... it snarls beneath my skin. My fangs extend. My claws flex.

I cannot be this close.

“Nora!” My voice is raw, burning.

She turns her head slightly—and that’s when I see it. Her eyes. Not blue. Not gold.

Black. Shot with fire. Medea.

The vision hits me like a blade.

She stands beside the spire, draped in crimson, her smile soft and cruel all at once. No longer a memory. She’s here.

“Medea,” I growl, staggering to my feet, barely holding form.

Her image looks at me. Not Nora’s body—no. A second form, an echo made of magic and malice, standing beside the real Nora like a mirrored reflection of what she could become.

“Still fighting it, Rhaegar?” Medea whispers. Her voice is smoke wrapped in silk. “Still clinging to your chains, even now? Look at her. Look at what she could be—with you beside her.”

“I’ll die before I let her turn into you.”

Medea laughs. “Then you’ll die, and she’ll choose me.”

Nora’s hand brushes the artifact.

The world holds its breath.

A pulse ripples out—not wind, not light. Something deeper. Something that slithers through stone and soul. The Wraithborn rear back in unison, their mouths open in a silent scream.

“No!” I roar, lunging forward, and she stops.

Nora freezes, her hand inches away, fingers trembling. Her lips part and a sound escapes—like a gasp torn from deep underwater. Her body jolts backward like something shoved her.

The pulse fades.

The artifact dims, flickering like a heartbeat slowing.

The Wraithborn settle. One tilts its head at me—its jaw clicks once. A warning, a curse. Or maybe… gratitude.

Nora crumples to her knees, breath ragged, shaking.

I reach her in two strides, dropping beside her, cradling her face. “What the hell were you thinking?”

She blinks up at me, dazed. “I heard her… she was so loud. She showed me what I could be. What we could do. Together.”

I want to shake her.

I want to hold her so tight nothing ever touches her again.

Instead, I breathe, my claws curling into the ash beside her.

“She’s lying to you,” I whisper.

“She showed me the Wraithborn kneeling at my feet,” she says, voice shaking. “The Unseen fleeing. You beside me—not broken, not bleeding. Whole.”

“That’s not real.”

“It felt real,” she whispers.

I help her to her feet. Her legs almost give out, but I steady her.

As I do, my gaze drifts to the artifact. There’s a hairline fracture down its side now—small, glowing like molten gold. The seal has been disturbed. Something… something ancient has started to wake.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not yet.

Nora shudders. “She’s still in my head.”

“She will be,” I say grimly. “Until we sever the tether.”

Her eyes meet mine. “Then we find a way to do it.”

I nod. But I don’t say what I’m thinking.

That the only way to sever a soul-bound tether… is to kill one of the souls.

And I’ll kill myself before I let her die.

Maybe this is the reason why we met. The very reason why fate put me there, and I brought her here without knowing.

My purpose is to protect and save her.

And I’ll gladly do it, fate or not.