Night fell early in the Highlands. The air was thinner here, laced with static, humming with the raw pull of broken ley lines. Lili coaxed a tiny fire to life in the crook of the wood, while Alora set wards around the perimeter.

  Lili tossed a pouch of dried meat at her. “Eat,” she ordered.

  Aurora caught it reflexively, offering a tired smile. “Yes, mother.”

  “Don’t sass me,” Lili said, settling beside her. “I’ll have you know I’m excellent at scolding.”

  Aurora chuckled, low and genuine. The fire crackled between them, throwing soft, flickering light across their faces. Alora settled down last, smoothing her cloak beneath her.

  That night, when the others slept beneath a narrow overhang of stone and wind-bleached grass, Alora sat alone with her back to the cliff, Gravebloom silent in her lap. The stars above were cold and sharp like judgment.

  The wind rustled the hem of her cloak, but the only real noise was in her mind. Not voices, not anymore. Bursting in her mind like falling stars on a clear night.

  Norell’s voice still echoed inside her.

  You are not just a priestess now. You are a channel.

  A channel. She closed her eyes. She thought to herself.

  “What am I? Why was I never told this was possible? Why didn’t they warn me?”

  Her question dissolved into the Highlands’ silence. Only the wind answered, sighing low through broken stone and bent grass, like a hymn from a forgotten choir.

  The Citadel had never spoken of this. The codex of souls never hinted. They were meant to bind, to sever, to guide. Never to channel. To open themselves to the dead and let them breathe again through living flesh. That was forbidden. Dangerous. And yet, Norell had seen her, named her, as if this path had always been waiting. This was something new; even the spirits that taught her the forbidden magic didn't teach her this.

  Her fingers traced the sigils carved into Gravebloom’s staff. They pulsed faintly, responding to her unease.

  “If I am a channel,” she whispered inwardly, “then what flows through me? Memory? Or something worse?”

  The thought gnawed at her. Was she still herself, or merely a vessel? A mirror, as Norell had said?

  She looked sideways at her sisters in arms. Aurora has rolled towards the fire, her braid loose, face softened in sleep at last. The golden pulse of the shard still leaked faintly from her satchel, warm as a heartbeat. Beside her, Lili snored lightly, one arm draped over her pack like a child clutching a toy, the little fire reflecting in the flowers that had sprouted unconsciously around her boots.

  Alora studied them for a long time, shadows deep in her eyes. The grounded her, sun, earth, and warmth. But now she felt more distant than ever.

  The wind picked up, scattering sparks from the fire. She tilted her head back, staring at the jagged line of stars framed by black peaks. The Highlands seemed to lean closer, listening. Alora sighed in frustration, standing up and walking out of camp, far enough that no one would hear her, but having the others still in sight.

  “Then listen well,” She whispered, not sure if she spoke to the mountains, to Norell, or to the Rift itself. “I will not be consumed. If I am to carry memory, I will carry it with my will intact.”

  Her words vanished into the night. Alora sat on the ground hard. Feeling all of what happened today coming to a crashing halt. A rustle behind her broke the quiet. She turned quickly. It was Lili, arms wrapped around herself, eyes squinting through the darkness.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you,” she said softly. “You weren’t sleeping, were you?”

  Alora didn’t answer. Not right away. Lili sat beside her, legs pulled to her chest. For a while, they just sat in the wind.

  “What happened back there?” Lili asked. “With the bridge. That… thing. That name. You knew it, you spoke it like a memory.”

  Alora looked at her, shadows curling around her face.

  “ I don’t like high places. I looked down and panicked. I didn’t know that word, but I spoke it. As if it knew me first.”

  Lili didn’t joke. Didn’t smirk. Just nodded.

  “None of us knew that kind of magic existed. Not even you.”

  Alora’s voice was barely a whisper. “Especially not me.”

  Lili reached into her pouch, pulled out a piece of hard bread, and took a bite. She chewed, swallowed, and then muttered.

  “Makes you wonder. If they never taught you because it’s dangerous…Or because it’s real.”

  Alora blinked.

  “You think they hid it?”

  Lili shrugged.

  “You’re the one raised by death-priests. I’m just a tree-daughter with a pet beetle and a deeply complicated relationship with moss. But if I were an old, secretive order of shadow-magic know-it-alls? I’d probably hide the stuff I didn’t understand.”

  Alora was quiet for a long moment.

  Then, with almost no sound at all, she whispered, “I’m afraid of what this means.”

  Lili leaned back against the rock, gazing up at the stars. “Yeah. Me too.”

  “But I think you’re still you. And that big bone guy? He bowed to you. Didn’t bind you. Didn’t use you. He trusted you.”

  She glanced sideways with a grin.

  “Besides, if you do go full necro-beast queen, I’ll just ask you to haunt my enemies in style.”

  Alora laughed, short and sharp. “Thank you, Lili.”

  “Always,” Lili said, patting her shoulder. “Now go to sleep before your skull starts glowing.”

  Alora closed her eyes. The wind stirred again. For the first time, she did not shut out the voices beneath the soil. She listened. Alora followed Lili back to the fire and sat next to the warmth. Aurora had awakened and was waiting patiently for them to return.

  The fire burned low, no longer fighting the night, simply holding it at bay. The Women were getting little to no sleep after a creature in the distance howled. Something was out there, and they didn’t know what it was.

  Lili sat closest to the flames, legs drawn up under her chin, poking at the embers with a blackened stick.

  Alora leaned back against a jutting root, arms crossed loosely over her chest, eyes half-lidded, thoughtful.

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  Aurora sat between them, her red hair a loose, tangled curtain around her face, her eyes distant.

  For a while, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the slow, soft moan of the wind threading through the ruined highlands.

  “When I was little,” she said, voice oddly light, “we used to have bonfires this big every season change.” She had stretched her arms as wide as she could.

  Aurora looked over at her, one eyebrow raised. “In the forest?”

  Lili grinned. “Deep wood. Yeah, big ones. We didn’t have towns like you lot. Just villages tucked between trees big enough to scrape the sky.”

  She trailed her stick through the ash, carving little swirling patterns.

  “Spring was the best,” she continued. “We’d dance around the fires until we collapsed. Half the time, drunk off honey wine.”

  Aurora smiled faintly at the image, Lili, younger and even wilder, laughing among trees.

  “What happened?” Alora asked, her voice so gentle it barely stirred the air.

  Lili’s grin faltered. She stared into the fire, eyes reflecting red and gold.

  “The Rift came,” she said simply. “Started slow. Crops sickening. Trees whispering at night.”

  She tightened her grip on the stick until it cracked in her hand.

  “I remember my mother planting a whole orchard of warding flowers. Singing to the roots to keep them strong. I remember thinking… we’d be safe.”

  She laughed, a short, bitter sound.

  “Didn’t matter. When the blight hit, it took the whole valley in days.”

  She looked up then, meeting their eyes without flinching.

  “I buried them myself. The ones I could find before we left and moved the whole grove somewhere new. I was really small then. It took me almost three whole days of digging.”

  The fire popped, throwing sparks into the dark. For a long moment, none of them spoke.

  Then Aurora shifted closer, resting a hand lightly on Lili’s shoulder. Lili smiled, a real one this time, small and fierce.

  " My people sank further into the forest, praying to the guardian for safety. Then they stopped talking to the old trees altogether. They didn’t want the trees to know their shame.”

  She flexed her fingers, green magic sparking faintly at her fingertips. She looked at them both. Alora stirred, her silver hair catching the fire’s dying light.

  “My story is… less noble,” she said quietly.

  Aurora frowned. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  Alora’s lips quirked, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

  “I was born in the Obsidian Reaches. A place where death is a craft. I don’t remember what happened to my family. I was found wandering through some old ruins. They said I had been talking to something or someone that wasn’t there. They thought I had lost my mind. I don't remember anything really before the Cidadel.”

  She traced a lazy circle in the dirt beside her. “ One of the older priests would only tell me little pieces here and there when I would ask. My people worshiped balance. Life. Death. Renewal. We tended the dead, guided them.”

  “But when the Rift came,” she continued, voice growing colder, “my people clung to life too fiercely. They turned the magic into an unspoken curse instead of a balm. We were only allowed to help them cross the Void after.”

  She looked up, and for the first time, Aurora saw something raw and wounded behind the calm. “I refused, they forced me into the dark. I don’t think they expected me to return.”

  Her hand clenched around the shaft of her staff.

  “They exiled me in a way. Said I was tainted. Said I had betrayed them. I spent most of my days in the catacombs speaking with only the dead; they told me stories. Taught me how to channel the magic. Showed me what books or scrolls to read. The others ignored me; the other children gave me a wide berth. The knowledge gave me the power to conjure my parents back, in spirit. I had so many questions at a young age. ”

  “You didn’t,” Lili said fiercely.

  Alora’s smile was as thin as paper. “No. But survival rarely cares about truth.”

  Aurora leaned forward, green eyes burning. “You chose right,” she said.

  “That matters.”

  Alora inclined her head once, an acknowledgment heavier than a bow.

  The fire cracked again, and for a time, they let the memories swirl and settle like ash on the wind.

  Finally, Lili nudged Aurora with her boot.

  “Alright, tall one. Your turn.”

  Aurora snorted, but the sound lacked real amusement. She stared into the heart of the fire, letting the flames blur and dance in her vision.

  “I was born in the capital,” she said finally. “A shining city of towers and courts and pretty lies.”

  She tugged the edge of her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

  “My family served the Spire guard, healers for the highborn. Bound by oath and blood.”

  She tilted her head, watching sparks rise into the night.

  “I was supposed to follow. Learn the arts. Heal the powerful. Marry well. Serve the system.”

  “And you didn’t,” Alora said, not a question.

  Aurora smiled, a sharp, broken thing.

  “I tried. Gods help me, I tried. But one day, a boy came to the gates. Not a noble. A street rat stabbed by a Guard for daring to beg.”

  She paused, breathing through the tightness in her chest.

  “They told me to let him die.” Her fingers tightened on the fabric of her cloak. “I refused.”

  She shook her head. “He lived. I went on to learn more and teach at the academy.”

  Her voice was steady, “And I learned that sometimes healing isn’t about following orders. Sometimes it’s about defying them.”

  Silence reigned after that, simply full, rich with understanding and shared pain. Aurora looked at the two women flanking her. Lili, fire and stubbornness, and the aching hope of green life; Alora, shadow and steel, and the fierce, gentle touch of one who understands death but chooses life anyway. Family, not by blood, but by every bond that mattered.

  “We found each other,” Lili said softly.

  Aurora smiled.

  “Because we were told to...” Alora’s voice was almost a whisper.

  “Because we chose to stand together,” Lili answered.

  The fire guttered low, casting long, shivering shadows across the hollow they had claimed for the night. The wind curled around the stones, carrying the scent of cold pine and mountain moss.

  Aurora drew her cloak tighter and looked at the others. “Do you ever wonder,” she said softly, “what we would have been, if none of this had found us?”

  Lili stretched out on her back with her hands behind her head, snorting. “Easy. I’d be stealing honeycakes from the orchard festival and blaming it on the neighbor’s goats.”

  Aurora smiled faintly. “Of course you would.”

  Alora, sitting with her knees pulled closed, rested her chin on folded arms. She didn't look at them when she spoke.

  “I’d be at the Citadel. Still binding souls for the council. Still believing every word they told me.” Her voice thinned. “Still pretending that was enough.”

  Silence lingered thoughtfully. Aurora touched the satchel at her side, feeling the faint pulse of the shards within, then looked at them both.

  “ I think… I'd still be searching. Even I didn't know for what.”

  Lili rolled onto her side to face them, her grin softening into something gentler, “Guess it's a good thing none of us got what we thought we wanted.”

  Aurora laughed quietly. Alora’s lips curved, just barely, into the ghost of a smile. The fire had burned down to glowing coals, soft as the heartbeat of the earth. The three of them sat close, the silence between them no longer empty but full.

  Aurora stared into the embers, then broke them.

  “The Guardians made their vow. To protect, to preserve. And it broke them.” She lifted her gaze, her green eyes steady. “I don't want us to end the same way.”

  Alora tilted her head, silver hair falling into her eyes. “What are you saying?”

  Aurora hesitated, searching for the right words. “That when this is over, when the Rift is sealed, when the shards are whole again, if we are still standing…I don't want us to scatter like dust on the wind. I want us to remember that we chose each other.”

  Lili's grin was soft but unwavering. “That sounds like a vow in itself.”

  Alora’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a long moment, she said nothing, then she reached into the firelight, her pale hand open between them.

  “Not to kingdoms, not to books, not to the dead.” Her eyes gleamed “ to us.”

  Aurora laid her hand atop hers, the warmth of her skin grounding them both.

  Lili smired and piled her on top, callused fingers squeezing tight. “Alright then, we make it official. No matter what happens, no matter how this ends, we don't let go. We don't forget.”

  “Even after,” Alora echoed

  “Even after,” Lili agreed, her smile fierce.

  They stayed like that, hands clasped, until the last of the fire burned down to ash and the night folded soft around them. For the first time in what felt like forever, Aurora didn't dream of Ymir, or failure, or falling. She dreamed of green roots and silver rivers, of laughter in the dark and of light that did not fade.