They stood at the threshold of what remained of the Hollow. The trees, once veined with whispering light, had dulled to a muted gray. Silence spread like rot. The witches and vampires—ancient enemies—now stood side by side, bound by the crumbling edge of reality.
Lyra inhaled deeply, her lungs heavy with ash and leftover magic. Across from her, Raven stretched his limbs, the tips of his fingers still humming with residue from the fusion ritual.
They had only begun to understand what it meant to be bonded—not just in heart, but in essence. When their magic collided, it didn't merely blend—it intertwined, like threads spun from stars and shadows. It was terrifying. It was beautiful.
"Again," Lyra said, voice firm despite the exhaustion pinching the corners of her eyes.
Raven raised a brow but nodded. They stood facing one another, palms extended. A pulse rippled between them, then expanded outward in a shimmering wave of frost and fire.
A burst of wind shattered the silence. The energy flared too strong, and Lyra stumbled back. Raven caught her before she fell, hands gripping her waist.
"You're pushing too hard," he said.
"We don't have time to ease into this," she replied, brushing her hair from her face. "The veil is unraveling. Whatever's coming—it's close."
From the edge of the clearing, one of the witches stepped forward. Mora, her silver hair braided with blue thorns, offered a grim nod. "The Guardians of the Rift were only the beginning. Something darker has been stirring beyond the prophecy. Something ancient."
Raven's gaze darkened. "And it wants the relic."
Mora nodded. "And you."
Whispers followed them as they walked back into the makeshift war room. A circular clearing protected by wards, surrounded by runes etched in blood and salt. Maps of both realms—torn, stitched, and rewritten—spread across the ground.
"We'll train in the south glade tonight," Raven said.
Lyra shot him a look. "You mean now."
He almost smiled. "Of course."
Training had become their ritual. Each night, they pushed their limits. Raven would strike fast, shadows trailing his limbs like ink. Lyra would counter with light wrapped in ice, her magic sharp and intentional. But tonight, something shifted.
Their movements became less about strategy and more about instinct. Each step was a rhythm. Each clash, a breath. Raven caught her wrist mid-spin, and Lyra didn't flinch. She twisted, their bodies aligned for a heartbeat too long, eyes locked.
"You're holding back," he said.
"So are you," she whispered.
Their bond surged.
The night around them cracked—not physically, but energetically. A ripple of power fanned outward. Somewhere, wards collapsed. The relic pulsed in the distance, echoing their sync.
They pulled apart.
Lyra gasped. "Did you feel that?"
"The prophecy… it's responding," Raven murmured.
Suddenly, a scream tore through the Hollow.
They ran.
Near the eastern edge, the protective barrier shimmered erratically. A figure lay collapsed in front of it. Blood stained the ground, glinting silver under the moonlight.
"Dara," Lyra whispered, recognizing one of the hybrid scouts.
He was still breathing, barely.
Raven dropped to his knees. "What happened?"
Dara coughed, blood streaking his lips. "They sent shadows. Not like yours. Deeper. Older. They knew where we were. They knew about you two."
"Who sent them?" Lyra asked, voice trembling.
Dara met her eyes. "The ones who wrote the prophecy. The true Keepers."
Then he stilled.
Lyra stood, spine straightening like steel.
"We're being hunted. Not because we're a threat—but because we're the key."
Raven rose slowly, his face unreadable. But when his hand reached for hers, she didn't hesitate.
The relic's light flared again—this time, from within their bond.
The prophecy had spoken. But now, they were speaking back.