The Oracle moved through the sleeping camp like a shadow given flesh, her prophecy-sigils dimmed beneath a cloak of ashes. She slipped past phoenix guards, past war-mages muttering fire-prayers in their sleep, until she reached the outermost edges of the encampment where no sentry watched.
There, hidden beneath a ruined altar to the Old Light, she drew a blade, not of steel, but of obsidian and bone.
With one cut across her palm, she whispered, "Let memory arise."
And the past answered.
The throne room of the Black Citadel was already cracked, its obsidian pillars splintered from months of siege tremors. Yet Mira stood tall, robed in midnight, the crescent diadem of the Night Queen dim but unbowed.
Before her stood the Sun Queen, radiant and stern, surrounded by her generals.
"I do not come to beg for myself," Mira had said, her voice trembling only once. "I come for my daughter. She is not a weapon. She is not a throne. Let her live, even if I must fall."
The Sun Queen had narrowed her eyes. "You would surrender the Citadel? Your armies? Your crown?"
"For her. Yes."
"She is the last star in the sky and you think I would let her rise?"
"She is not the darkness you fear," Mira had whispered. "She is the balance you broke."
But the Sun Queen turned her back.
"I gave you a chance," Mira had said, quieter still. "Then I must trust in the old ways."
The memory then faded from the Oracle's sight.
Blood drying on her palm, the Oracle whispered beneath the ruined altar:
"They think you gone, little star. They think you lost. But I carried you into the dark, and in the dark, you will bloom."
She knelt and pressed her hand to the earth.
"Let the Sun Queen have her war. Let her blind the world. But I will guard the dusk. Until the balance returns. Until Nyx rises."
Far above, the moon broke through the clouds, just a sliver. Just enough.
The Dawn soldiers did not march, they descended, like a storm of light sent to erase shadow. Their golden banners flared against the twilight skies, and their war horns echoed like the cries of dying stars.Fire swept through the obsidian gates of the Night Realm, and behind it came steel, vengeance, and divine decree.
The black marble halls of the palace shook with tremors as sacred enchantments collapsed. Wards that had stood for centuries flickered and died, snuffed out by the relentless will of the Sun Queen's chosen. Screams echoed down corridors where music once played, and the scent of lavender incense was drowned in ash and blood.
In the east wing, the Moonwell, the ancient heart of the realm's magic—shattered with a sound like the cracking of the world. Moonlight turned red as its waters boiled and steamed, and the Night Priests who stood guard fell one by one, whispering the names of forgotten gods as golden blades cut them down.
The Royal Nursery burned next. Nurses tried to flee with the youngest of the Night children, but the sky above had turned to fire. Phoenix riders swooped low, setting rooftops ablaze, driving the terrified into courtyards where Dawn soldiers waited. No one was spared—blood ran through silver-tiled gardens, and lullabies turned into wails.
High in the Tower of Silence, Lady Seline of the Night watched her kingdom fall through a cracked obsidian window. Her youngest daughter lay still beside her, poisoned by a golden arrow. The queen wept silently, kissed the child's brow, and opened her wrists before the enemy could claim her alive.
In the Hall of Ancients, the last great mages of the Night Court made their stand. Cloaked in shadow and starlight, they raised their hands to the sky and cast spells forbidden even in war. One by one, they were cut down, first Elder Solir, then the twin Seers, then pale-haired Iris, whose final breath turned a hundred Dawn soldiers into ice before they shattered her skull.
Within the Throne Room, the Phoenix soldier pierced the heart of Lord Tristan and the side of his son, as they fought bravely. They fell quickly by the sword, as their numbers began to dwindle each moment they spent in the heat of battle.
Then came the Hall of Mirrors, where Mira stood alone.
She was a vision of defiance, her armor scorched, her hair loose and tangled with blood, her eyes dark with death's promise. Shadow-wings unfurled behind her, great and terrible, dancing with the last enchantments of her lineage.
The Phoenix Guard entered as one. Seven riders clad in sunfire, swords lit with divine flame. The mirrors cracked as they approached, unable to bear the light.
Mira did not flinch.
She leapt.
Steel met flame. Wings tore through air. She moved like vengeance made flesh—cutting down the first, the second, the third. A scream of war. The fourth fell with a dagger through his throat. The fifth she dragged into shadow. The sixth set her cloak aflame.
The seventh drove his sword through her side.
She did not fall.
Not yet.
Her robes caught fire, burning at the edges until the blaze consumed her.
She burned not with fear, but with fury. Her scream was not of pain it was a curse. A vow. A memory.
As she fell to her knees amid the flames and broken glass, her lips parted one last time, in a plea of hope to God above.
She spoke a name no one heard.
No one but the Oracle, who stood in silence far away with tears gathered in her eyes for the death of dying stars all around.
"Nyx."