[Evelyn’s POV]

Draven pulls me away from Cassandra’s body with the firm, measured strength of someone who knows that if he doesn’t do this now, I’ll shatter in a way that can’t be repaired.

His hands close around my arms and lift me to my feet, separating me from the weight in my lap, from the body that was my sister, from the blood that has soaked into my leathers and will never wash out.

I try to fight him. Not physically — I don’t have the strength left for that — but verbally. I’m broken… A stream of words that don’t make sentences is the only thing I am capable of right now.

“Draven, this power wasn’t mine, it wasn’t something I chose, it just erupted and I couldn’t stop it—”

“Listen to me carefully.”

“I was trying to save her, I was trying to break the cycle without anyone dying, I told her we could both walk away—”

“Evelyn! I need you to hear what I’m about to say.”

“She reached for my hand at the end. She reached for me like I was something worth reaching for, and the last thing she felt was the light that killed her—”

His hands frame my face, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are dark and certain, anchored in a way that makes me want to cling to him.

“You didn’t choose to kill her. It’s your power that chose to keep you alive. Those are not the same thing.”

The words land somewhere deep in my chest, in the hollow space where grief has carved out everything else.

“It doesn’t matter… She’s still dead, and I’m the one who killed her. The prophecy said one sister would break the other, and I’m the one still standing.”

“The bond acted to protect you from a killing strike. Cassandra committed to that thrust knowing what it would force you to do. She made her choice, and the power made its choice.”

“That doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

“No, it doesn’t, but understanding that you didn’t choose this — that matters. It will matter more as time passes.”

I hear him. I don’t believe him — not yet, maybe not for a long time — but I hear him. The words sink into the wreckage of my mind and find purchase somewhere, a handhold in the chaos.

He leads me away from the cliff. It was away from Cassandra’s body, away from the blood-soaked stone, from the place where the prophecy ended and everything else began.

I let him guide me because I don’t have the will to do anything else. My legs move. My feet find the ground, so my body functions even in the absence of any instruction from my mind.

The compound corridors are full of wounded — medics rushing past, warriors clutching injuries, the aftermath of war written on every face. And then they see me.

Their expressions shift as recognition dawns — respect giving way to fear, fear mixing with pity, pity tangling with awe. They know what I did, as the story has already spread.

“They do not know what to feel about you. You have become something they cannot categorize.”

It’s Aspis’s voice in my mind, distant but present. She’s still at the cliff, grounded by her damaged wing, unable to follow.

“I feel like nothing, Aspis. I should be someone after what happened, but I’m just empty inside.”

“It is the beginning of grief, not the end of it. The feeling will come later, when there is room for it to exist.”

“What if it never comes and I stay empty forever?”

“We will learn to live with emptiness together, but I do not think that is your fate. You feel too deeply to remain hollow for long.”

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