Chapter 221
*Jiselle*
The stronghold wasn’t burning.
But it should’ve been.
The walls trembled with the memory of fire, each crack in the stone still glowing faintly at the seams. The air was heavy, not with smoke alone but with something older–like the breath of gods pressed into the mortar, refusing to be forgotten.
I staggered to my feet in the doorway, bracing one hand against the frame as I stared out over what was left of the courtyard. The earth had split clean down the center, a jagged wound cleaving through what used to be the training grounds, now swallowed by steam and ash. The moon was veiled behind shifting clouds, casting the rubble in pale shadow, and the leyline–once fractured–was now pulsing in eerie silence beneath our feet.
And at the heart of it all stood my daughter.
Solara.
Tiny. Barefoot. And utterly still.
She stood where the rupture had begun, not crying, not blinking, not even flinching as the heat shimmered around her like a halo spun from lightning. Her fingers were splayed against the ground, palm down, as if pressing something into the earth–or perhaps, calling something up from it.
“Solara.” I breathed.
Nate was already ahead of me. His stride faltered the moment he reached her, but he didn’t interrupt whatever was happening. He knelt beside her, reaching out, his fingers curling just inches from her small shoulder. But he didn’t touch.
Because the moment he tried… the ground pulsed.
Not violently. Not with rage or collapse. But with resonance. Like music. Like something ancient rising through the bones of the world.
The light beneath her feet deepened from silver to violet, then threaded outward in veins–no longer fractures, but fusions. Magic, raw and molten, stitched itself into the earth as though she were rewriting the leyline itself… with her blood.
Nate looked back at me, lips parting, but no words came.
Behind me, Eva muttered a curse under her breath and dropped to one knee. Ethan followed, wide–eyed, barely standing. Even the wolves who had survived the Hollow–born attack–those who could still move–fell quiet, instinct dropping them into reverent stillness.
I crossed the courtyard slowly, knees threatening to buckle with each step. The heat didn’t burn. But it hummed. And somehow, that was worse. I reached Solara just as the light began to dim, as the leyline–no
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Chapter 221
longer fractured–settled into a rhythm that matched her heartbeat.
Her eyes opened.
And for a single breath, I forgot how to breathe.
A
Because they glowed with something that was not inherited from me or Nate or any bloodline I’d ever known. It was not the light of a wolf. Or a Sovereign. Or even a god.
It was the light of the leyline itself.
And it had chosen her.
She turned her head, slowly, and looked at me–not like a child needing her mother–but like a queen acknowledging her witness.
“She didn’t just stabilize it,” Eva whispered from behind me. “She… anchored it.”
Ethan stepped forward, his voice hollow. “The land’s responding to her. Not the other way around.”
A cold chill skated down my spine.
“Is that possible?” I asked, eyes never leaving Solara.
“She’s not bound to the leyline,” Eva murmured. “She is the leyline.”
And somehow… I already knew that. Deep in my bones. Deeper still in the flicker of my own flame, which now bowed gently beneath the weight of hers. It wasn’t fear I felt. But reverence. The kind that whispered: You were not meant to rule this child. You were meant to guide her… until she no longer needed you.
Solara’s small hand lifted from the earth.
The light faded instantly.
Not dispersed. Not extinguished.
Obeyed.
The land was no longer what it had been.
The stronghold still stood, though fractured. The ash no longer choked. But something fundamental had shifted. Old wards had burned out. Magic lines once loyal to ancient Sovereigns now bent toward a new rhythm–a new Sovereign.
Not born of war.
But of flame.
“Solara,” I whispered, falling to my knees. “You saved us.”
She blinked once. And for a moment, she looked like a child again.
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Chapter 221
Then she leaned into me, her small body folding against mine, her breathing calm. I cradled her tightly, feeling her heartbeat steady and deep beneath her ribs.
And just like that… the world stilled.
Bastain arrived long after the smoke had settled.
His cloak was torn. His arm was in a sling, and his boots left streaks of blood where he stepped, but his eyes were sharp. He said nothing at first. Just stared at the courtyard, at the new markings etched into the earth, at the stronghold’s twisted silhouette under the healing moon.
“You survived,” I said softly, unable to hide the tremble in my voice.
He didn’t look at me. “Because she chose to let me.”
Eva stepped closer. “You saw it too?”
“I felt it,” he replied. “Even from the Hollow’s edge.”
“You went back?” Ethan asked, stepping forward.
“I had to. The fractures are spreading again–deeper. Wider. But different now. They’re not bleeding chaos. They’re seeking something. Aligning.”
“Aligning to what?” I asked.
Bastain’s eyes finally met mine.
“To her.”
He nodded toward Solara, who was fast asleep in my arms, wrapped in ash–stained blankets.
“She’s not just the leyline’s child, Jiselle. She’s its anchor. Its weapon. And its peace. All in one.”
I swallowed hard. “Then why does it still feel like something is coming?”
He hesitated.
Then he pulled me aside, away from the others. His breath hitched as he steadied himself against the wall, wincing with pain.
“This wasn’t the end,” he said. “It was the binding. A final stitch to seal what came before. But bindings don’t last without blood. And this storm–what’s really coming–it won’t ask for power.”
My mouth went dry. “What will it ask for?”
His eyes darkened.
“Soul.”
He left that same night, though none of us wanted him to. He said the leyline was pulling him. Calling him
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Chapter 221
deeper into the Hollow’s edge, where the final convergence would happen. Where the Gate would make its
last stand,
“Don’t wait for me,” he said to Nate. “You’ll know when the next war begins.”
“Because the Gate will open?” Ethan asked.
Bastain’s lips barely moved. “Because you will.”
He clasped my hand one last time. His palm was rough. Hot.
“Don’t fear what she becomes, Jiselle. Just make sure… it’s her choosing what she becomes. Not prophecy. Not pain. Not even you.”
And then he vanished into the woods, fireflies parting for him like they, too, remembered his name.
It was hours later, long after everyone else had gone to sleep, that I padded softly through the quiet halls of the nursery. The walls had been cleaned. The air felt lighter.
Solara slept in the woven cradle Eva had repaired.
I leaned down to kiss her forehead, the scent of starlight and smoke still clinging to her hair.
And that’s when I saw it–tucked gently in the folds of her blanket, almost hidden from sight. It was black, its edges burned and curling inward as if singed by a flame that hadn’t quite died. A feather. Long and unmistakably from a raven. I reached down slowly and brushed my fingers across it, and a jolt of heat shot up my arm.
It was still warm to the touch.
I straightened, a chill crawling down my spine, and turned toward the window, my hand tightening instinctively around the edge of the cradle. The night outside was still. Too still. The forest stood untouched beneath the moonlight, but I could feel it in the air–something had been here. Something not meant to cross the threshold of peace.
And worse-
Something still was here.
Watching.
Waiting.
And no longer hiding.
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
