Lyra didn't remember when her feet stopped touching the ground. Or if she was even walking at all. The space between realms had always been a blur, but now it felt like it was breathing around her—alive, trembling, pulling.
Raven's hand clutched hers, the only anchor in a place where light and shadow didn't behave like they should. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Their bond had crossed its final threshold.
The creature that had held their hearts was gone, dispersed into a mist that still lingered on their skin, whispering in a language neither of them understood. But its intent had been clear: it had marked them. Claimed them.
Chosen them.
"It's not just the veil," Lyra said, voice cracking. "It's the entire boundary between what's real and what's not. It's thinning."
Raven's eyes glowed faintly, pupils sharp like the moon caught in a still lake. "And we're the tear."
A tremor ran through her chest. "What happens if it rips completely?"
He turned to her, brushing a strand of her hair back with a gentleness that betrayed how tightly he was wound. "Then nothing will separate this realm from mine. Not dreams. Not death."
Lyra shivered. Not from fear—but recognition. There was something inside her now, something ancient and cold, brushing against her magic like frost across a flame.
"We have to go back," she whispered.
"To what?" Raven asked. "A world that wants to control you? Kill me? Pretend none of this is real?"
"No." She looked up, steel in her bones now. "To stop it. To stop whatever is pushing this bond into something we can't control."
A pulse echoed through the veil like thunder under water.
"They know," Raven said. "Someone's trying to close it before we do."
She nodded. "Then we move."
Their feet met earth again—real earth—only it wasn't the witch realm they returned to.
It was something older.
The trees loomed like watchers, black bark slick with ash. The air reeked of burnt memories and time lost. In the center of the glade stood the relic. It pulsed with light now—neither red nor white but a color that shouldn't exist.
Lyra stepped forward and instantly collapsed.
Raven caught her, but his breath hitched. The ground beneath her hands was bleeding. Her magic was leaking out of her skin, drawn toward the relic like a moth to flame.
"It's feeding on us," she gasped.
"No," he said. "It's responding to us."
They turned slowly.
Behind them, figures emerged—hooded, masked, and humming a dirge that chilled the wind.
The Guardians of the Rift.
"I thought they were dead," Lyra said.
"They are," Raven answered grimly.
The lead guardian raised a crooked staff. "The bond must be sealed. The relic must be awakened."
"But we didn't ask for this!" Lyra yelled.
The guardian's voice was hollow. "Fate doesn't need permission."
As the chant grew louder, the relic's light flared, and Raven's fangs ached. Lyra's fingertips cracked with frost and flame.
"Then let fate try," she hissed.
They stood together in the glade, backs against prophecy, eyes blazing, the bond between them no longer a whisper—but a war cry.
And somewhere deep in the veil, the ancient thing watching them smiled.