Chapter Ten
The girl who bleeds to find her own
May cross the dark and call it home
Seren fastens her braid with a leather strap, reaching for another to secure around her head.
She stares into the mirror atop the dresser, with the rushing cascade of the waterfall whispering through the window of her room in the west wing of Elarion Castle. Staring back at her is no longer the girl, the scholar, the little sister, the sweet one. She’s gone.
But the ghost of her remains. Perhaps she always will. She’s been her for so long that anything other than blind compliance and submission feels like rebellion.
Seren shakes her head as if she can rattle the past from her bones.
She worries the rough edge of the leather strap between her fingers.
Like her, this strap started as a blank canvas—rough and raw.
But over time, after many hands shape it and mold it, it will be worn into something smooth, compliant, obedient. Just like her.
So she stops smoothing it down, and chooses to let it remain. Unsculpted, unmade. She pulls the strap taut across her forehead, drawing it tight enough to leave an indent.
Because now, there is no evidence of the compliant little sister at all. Staring back through the same honey-brown eyes is a warrior. A woman. A witch.
She sheathes a blade at her thigh, double-checking the clasps of her leather armor, and for the first time, she smiles at the sight. As if who she was told to be surrenders to the woman she was always destined to become.
Fire gathers where fear should live, and a hard, burning resolve settles in her gut. Because Seren Calvatere is going home.
She strides for the door—no hesitation, just fire.
Her boots pound steady and measured through the halls of Elarion Castle, her gait efficient and determined.
The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine hits her first, and she knows she’s close to Queen Ilyra’s dining courtyard.
Seren didn’t attend the private evening meal, though she received an invitation.
Perhaps the queen will be offended by her absence, but for once, Seren is not bothered by the opinions of others. Not even the revered Queen of Nymeris.
This time, she’s concerned with something far more important: her blood.
She passes through an archway where limestone pillars stretch far into the skyline, and lanterns spill soft light across the terrace and the faces of her friends.
The full moon looms over her like a watchful eye, expectant.
Seren sucks in a long, smooth inhale, steeling her nerve.
Her friends drop into low bows and curtsies, and Seren spins to find Queen Ilyra, resplendent and refined in a cascading dress of ice-blue that trails behind her in a dramatic declaration.
Hair like soft golden threads, so fair they appear almost white beneath the moonlight, flows behind her in an elegant sweep, and her frostlit eyes catch on Seren, intense and unyielding as they take her in.
Seren drops into a curtsy as Ilyra passes beneath the arches woven with ivy.
Queen Ilyra stops before her, pressing her slender, elegant fingers under Seren’s chin to lift her face.
Seren’s thighs burn, but she tilts her chin up. Their eyes meet.
And for a heartbeat, Seren holds her breath. One last remnant of the girl desperate for approval.
But conviction rises hot and fast and undeniable—she will not be her anymore.
So she holds Ilyra’s gaze, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly. And Ilyra smiles. Acknowledgement from one underestimated woman to another: let them be wrong about us.
She gives Seren an almost imperceptible nod, and releases her chin.
Approval.
But Seren doesn’t beam—she simply returns the gesture.
“Rise,” Ilyra croons, smooth and elegant.
And that’s when Seren sees the missive.
The group takes a step in, gathering toward Ilyra in a secretive hush.
“We have received a missive,” Ilyra announces, poised, though Seren doesn’t miss the slight tremor in her voice, the tremble in her hands.
But Kael takes another step forward. “Maireth,” he mutters, recognizing the seal, voice laced with venom.
Ilyra gives him a tight bow, royal to royal, and nods in confirmation.
“It appears she… has grown weary of our neutrality,” Ilyra admits, breath shaky.
“What did she say, exactly?” Kael pushes, his voice a rough growl.
Ilyra huffs a pained exhale and passes the missive around.
Ilyra,
As women in a man’s world, we must lead with force, or what we have will be taken by force.
Your neutrality in this realm-wide war for dominion has become a liability to my plans.
Choose a side, or I will choose it for you.
Without your allegiance, we are coming for your wards, your shores, and your knowledge.
Queen Maireth of Caeloria.
Seren sucks in a sharp breath.
Fuck.
Kael lets out an animalistic growl and scrunches the missive in his palm.
But Ilyra swallows her fear, pinning her shoulders behind her. She clears her throat, panning across the group until her gaze fixes on Teddy.
“Therion Ashborne, General of War, the Sword of Zerynthia—I formally request your leadership to train my army in warfare. You must turn our scholars, Runewrights, Venomshades, Aetherstrides, and Earthbound into warriors in mere weeks,” she declares, not flinching at the audacity of the request.
From all the books here, Seren knows they have no Bloodbonds. No Shadowweaves. Certainly no Lightbornes. The fates had never blessed Nymeris with violent affinities. They were a people shaped for peace and knowledge instead.
Ilyra adds, “If you are as good as they say you are, it should not be a problem.”
A challenge.
“He is the very best,” Kael confirms without hesitation.
But Teddy doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks for Seren.
Their eyes meet, an entire conversation passing between them without a word.
He snaps his gaze back to Ilyra.
“I’m already engaged on a mission. I must respectfully decline, despite this show of allegiance,” he says, voice low and solemn.
And he’s right—this is a show of allegiance.
Nymeris have never aligned themselves with anyone.
They’ve used information as leverage and a means to avoid conflict, both political and violent.
Peace is their way of life, and so is cunning.
So Ilyra’s pledge of allegiance, no matter how vague, stuns Seren.
Kael grabs Teddy’s shoulder, other hand balled in a fist at his side.
“Brother, we have no army. We have untrained rebels who need to stay and protect Kryntar, and the tribes who’ve already returned to Skaedor’s Crest with their heir’s belt.
They want nothing to do with this war. This is Nymeris offering allegiance for the first time in centuries.
We need this. You are the only one who can train them in this timeframe. ”
Teddy shakes his head, torn.
“Teddy,” Seren murmurs, quietly but not softly. “I am not afraid. For once, I am choosing my own path. Myself. My own Great Calling. I am going regardless of your company.”
He looks ready to argue, to fight to stay by her side. Seren’s chest blooms with warmth, but she cuts him off before he can start. “You are more than a guardian for others, Teddy. You must find your own Great Calling, too.”
Teddy closes his eyes, accepting her words, but not liking them. As if letting her go is both freedom and a cage.
But he nods, ever the General.
“We begin at daybreak,” he says, voice clipped and emotionless. Like he’s choosing duty over holding onto something he doesn’t want to let go of, but doesn’t trust himself to hold onto.
Ilyra lets out the breath she’s been holding, and gives Teddy a stiff nod. But Seren sees the way her shoulders loosen, her face softens. Relief.
Seren gives a curt nod.
“It’s time to open the Gateways.”
Elyssara steps forward, hair pulled back in a perfect braid, weapons positioned perfectly at her waist, thighs, and ankles. “Then let the realms remember who we are.”
Seren steps into the center of the courtyard and lets the world fall quiet.
Lantern light flickers at the edges of her vision. The night air presses cool against her skin. She plants her boots on the slick stones and lowers her chin, grounding herself in breath and bone and blood.
“The objects,” Seren says, holding out her palms.
Ilyra withdraws a small blade from a thigh sheath beneath her skirts that trail in the rain-soaked stone. And somehow, Seren buzzes at the sight; a regal Queen unafraid to get her hands and skirts dirty. “A blade from the volcanic forges of Vyrhal,” Ilyra declares.
Elyssara steps forward. “An hourglass from the sands of Caeloria, courtesy of my Shades,” she offers.
Seren grips the objects, laying them on the ground before her.
“Stand back,” she booms, unsheathing a small blade from her hip.
She raises her hand, honeyed light spilling across her palm.
And slices through her flesh until deep mahogany blood splatters next to the blade and sand timer, leaching into the stone.
The blade for Vyrhal.
The sand for Caeloria.
Her blood for home.
Her hands draw wide, her eyes close in focus, and her face tilts skyward.
Golden threads of light draw from the trees, the ground, her friends, and she channels them into her hands.
She directs the threads toward the objects, gathering up the essence of them. The thread loops around them, like a golden lasso.
Seren’s eyes snap open, and pools of obsidian stare out at the world.
The others suck in sharp inhales, muttering curses under their breaths.
But Seren ignores it, for this feeling—this power, this control—is home. Not the place, but the feeling of finally becoming what she’s meant to be.
She draws her arms wider, siphoning the essence into the air. She commands the magic, and power answers instantly.
The world splits apart.
Three rips cleave through the night sky, gleaming threads sparking and crackling like thunder snapping in a storm.
The others watch in awe at this great display of power, and Seren relishes it—soaking it up like it can heal the wounds of her insignificance.
One circle burns vast and radiant, heat rippling off its edge like a living thing. It smells of ash and iron and scorched stone, the air trembling as though something immense is shifting on the other side.
“Vyrhal,” Seren announces, voice unyielding. “Ronyn, Jax—you have your amulets?”
They nod their confirmation, but no one speaks.
No one acknowledges the fracture.
The risk.
The stakes.
But Kael breaks the silence. “We have days. Weeks at most. We speak through the amulet with completed missions or not at all.”
It’s not a command. Not an order.
It’s a promise.
An inevitability.
And Ronyn swallows it down, giving a terse nod. He wraps his palm around the amulet, eyes boring into Seren with intensity, sincerity.
I love you, sis.
Ronyn’s words land softly in Seren’s mind, but they knife through her heart.
He’s never said that. Not to her. And now he says it like he might not get another chance.
Her power falters. A tremor in the Gateway. But she says nothing. Only nods.
Ronyn and Jax step through the Gateway of Threads, disappearing into the rip in the world.
The second portal whirls—hot and dry and whipping. Like the eye of a sandstorm. It smells of sun-bleached bone and sounds of sparse, endless space. Only the howl of hot wind cutting through dips and hollows.
“Caeloria,” Seren declares, hands still twisting and distorting to maintain the shape of the Gateway.
Kael and Elyssara step forward, double-checking their weapons.
Kael reaches for Elyssara, pulling her to his chest and pressing a kiss into her hair. But his eyes—they’re spliced with darkness. His ocean-lightning irises interrupted by streams of black.
What in the…
“Good luck,” he says to the others, voice tight and restrained, but his eyes never leave Elyssara’s. And he steps through the Gateway without hesitation.
Elyssara turns to Seren, swallowing thickly, brows furrowed in… pain? Sadness?
She tries to open her mouth to say something, but words fail. Instead, she clasps the amulet hanging from her chest, emerald-green eyes pinning Seren in place.
Greatness has always been your destiny, Seren. I’m sorry I hid you from it. Kept you from it. My fear of losing you stopped you from finding your strength sooner.
Elyssara’s words rip open old scars. Seren’s gut clenches at the way she was sheltered—made to believe she was nothing more than incapable and incompetent. A liability. But goodness doesn’t disappear when strength arrives. Because Seren is nothing if not emotionally astute.
She grips her own amulet, holding Elyssara in her mind so the message arrives.
Perhaps that was destined, too? Because you were also the one who took me into the world, El. Who trusted my intelligence to reshape the realms.
Seren lets the words find their way, hoping to soothe the part of Elyssara that aches.
The others don’t speak. They take a half-step back, allowing the sisters to have their moment, even if their words cannot be heard.
Elyssara’s eyes turn glassy, welling with tears she tries to hold back. I was your cage, Seren.
Seren can’t help it—her eyes well, too. She grips her amulet again, holding the Gateway steady with a single hand.
But you were also the one with the key to open it and told me to fly, El.
A sob rips from Elyssara.
But Seren won’t absolve her guilt. Not entirely.
She will rewrite her own story.
Seren can no longer fixate on everyone else. She must forge a path of her own.
“Go!” Seren urges. “Restore history to Dravara. We’ll write a new one.”
Elyssara’s breath rushes in and out in ragged pants. But she spins toward the Gateway, auburn braid snapping in the night air.
She blows out a sharp exhale, rolling her shoulders, her neck.
“A new Dravara,” she breathes, and steps through the Gateway.
It snaps closed behind her, as if it never was.
Seren stares into the final Gateway.
Her Gateway.
It unfolds slowly, like breath drawn by an ancient lung.
The air around it thickens, darkening into shadow threaded with silver, and Seren feels the unmistakable weight of attention settle over her—as if something old has opened its eyes.
It smells of a fresh storm and seawater.
It smells of no place she’s been before.
This is not Aevryn. Not Nymeris. Not Caeloria. This is someplace other.
And Seren smiles.
She angles her head to Teddy, and his hand finds hers, tracing idle circles across her palm.
He softens his gaze, but nothing can hide the pain buried beneath it. Like letting her go ruins a part of him he’ll never say out loud. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Seri.”
But Seren only stares at him. Lingers for a heartbeat. “I hope you find yourself, Teddy.”
She slips her hand from his, letting her thumb catch on his, and without breaking eye contact, she steps through the Gateway.
Across a threshold.
Home.