The winds that had once screamed through the Hollow Citadel were gone.
Lucien stood barefoot on the dewy grass, his cloak tattered and streaked with ash. The remnants of the shattered citadel were nowhere to be seen. Instead, they now stood in a meadow blanketed with wildflowers, soft and radiant under the touch of the golden sun. Petals danced in the air like confetti, and the breeze was gentle for the first time in what felt like forever.
He breathed in slowly, deeply.
Peace.
It was an alien feeling.
Eiran stirred beside him, groaning softly as he sat up. Lucien rushed to him, catching him before he could fall back.
"Easy," Lucien whispered. "You're safe. We're safe."
Eiran blinked up at him, dazed but conscious. His hand reached up to brush Lucien's cheek, as if to confirm he was real.
"You're here," he murmured.
Lucien nodded, heart thudding. "Always."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Their eyes spoke for them. Everything they had fought for, suffered through, and almost died for—it had led to this quiet moment, untouched by war, free from prophecy or fate.
"What… happened?" Eiran asked at last, his voice scratchy.
Lucien exhaled. "I broke the circle. Shattered the ritual. Altheria's grip is gone."
Eiran winced as he sat up fully. "And we survived?"
"I don't know how. But yes."
They were alive.
---
The others arrived a few hours later, guided by magical signals Lucien had sent into the wind. Sorrel was the first to appear, her hair singed, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion and relief. Behind her came Elen, and then the twins—Malen leaning on Marik, still recovering but smiling weakly.
"You idiots actually made it," Marik said, blinking back tears.
Lucien laughed—really laughed—for the first time in ages. "Barely."
They made camp beneath a twisted oak, the only tree in sight that bore golden fruit. The night was calm, no monsters, no whispers, just the crackle of fire and the low hum of healing magic as Sorrel tended to Eiran's wounds.
Later, when the others slept, Lucien sat beside Eiran again.
"I thought I lost you," he confessed.
Eiran, half-laying against a tree, reached for his hand.
"You didn't. And you won't."
Lucien hesitated, then asked, "Do you regret it? Giving up the throne, the war, everything?"
Eiran's lips curled in a tired smile. "What's a throne without a future to sit on? I'd rather have you."
Lucien's heart stuttered.
"Do you remember what you told me, that night before the war began?" Eiran continued.
Lucien shook his head.
"You said, 'If I fall, I hope I fall for you.'"
Lucien swallowed hard. "I meant it."
"I know."
They kissed under starlight. This time, there was no urgency. No finality. Just quiet, fierce love.
---
Morning came too soon.
A messenger hawk landed on Elen's shoulder, bearing the seal of the Eastern Kingdom. A letter written in haste, the ink still smudged.
Lucien read it aloud:
"To Duke Ravencroft and Prince Eiran: Your presence is required at the Unification Summit. The High Council must hear your account. War has ceased, but questions remain. Come swiftly. Trust, while blooming, is still fragile."
Lucien looked at Eiran. "They want us to justify why we didn't bring fire and ruin?"
Eiran nodded. "And we'll tell them the truth."
---
The journey back was smoother this time. No enemies in pursuit. No dark magic in the air. Still, tension sat heavily on their shoulders.
Elareth had changed. News had spread. The villain had vanished; the prince had abandoned his army. Nobles whispered of betrayal. But the common folk—those who had lost sons and daughters to war—they celebrated.
When the group entered the city gates, they were not met with jeers, but with silence. Eyes watched from behind shutters and market stalls. People bowed, uncertain.
Lucien held Eiran's hand tightly.
The council chamber was grand and austere, filled with high lords and queens, ministers and generals. The Archmage stood at the center, staff in hand, his eyes glowing faintly.
"Duke Ravencroft. Crown Prince Eiran," he intoned. "You return, not with conquest, but with peace. Explain."
Lucien stepped forward.
"I broke the cycle," he said simply. "I destroyed the spell that tied this world to a corrupt fate. The war was never necessary. It was scripted. We broke free."
The Archmage narrowed his eyes. "You speak of fate as though it were parchment."
Eiran joined him. "We lived our lives like puppets. But we cut the strings. We chose each other. That was our rebellion."
Silence followed. Then murmurs.
One elder lord spoke up. "And what now? Do you seek rule?"
Lucien looked at Eiran. Then back at the council.
"No," he said. "We seek healing. And freedom."
The Archmage raised his staff.
"So be it. Your names will be cleared. Your path, your own. But tread carefully—this peace is young."
Lucien bowed. "We understand."
---
That night, in the high towers of the castle, Eiran stared out at the kingdom.
"It's not over, is it?" he asked.
Lucien joined him, wrapping arms around his waist.
"No. But we have time now. We can write our story instead of reliving someone else's."
Eiran turned to him. "Then let's begin with this: I love you."
Lucien smiled. "That's a good beginning."
They kissed again—this time not as enemies, not as pieces on a board.
But as two souls who had survived fate.
And now, they were free to live.
---
To be continued…
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