Lyciah couldn’t remember the last time her brother had hesitated before speaking. He didn’t look away from her.

  “I want to talk to you. Alone.”

  Seliane stepped forward before she even had time to think.

  “Absolutely not.”

  Her tone was firm, without the slightest hint of doubt. The last time they had seen Sorian, he had tried to take Lyciah back to Elyndra by force, convinced he was doing the right thing.

  “I don’t trust you,” she added, not softening it in the slightest.

  From behind her, Elric nodded, folding his arms.

  “To be fair, your track record isn’t exactly working in your favor…”

  Caelan said nothing. He simply moved a fraction closer to Lyciah—just enough for Sorian to notice. His posture remained straight, composed… but the tension set in his shoulders betrayed him.

  Sorian held every one of their gazes without flinching.

  “I haven’t come to take her back,” he said calmly. “You have my word.”

  His voice no longer carried that rigid, military edge it once had. It was still steady—but something about it had changed.

  Lyciah studied her brother in silence. She knew him too well. She could tell when he was acting out of duty… and when he was acting because something else was driving him.

  “All right,” she said at last.

  Seliane’s head whipped toward her.

  “What do you mean, all right?”

  “I trust him.”

  The words were simple. No embellishment. No hesitation.

  Caelan glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

  “If anything happens—”

  “Nothing will happen,” she cut in with a small, nervous smile. “We’re just going to talk.”

  Seliane still looked ready to argue, but Lyciah had already started walking toward Sorian. With visible reluctance, Seliane released the hilt of her sword.

  They walked far enough that the others’ voices faded behind them.

  At first, they wandered without direction, as though the simple act of moving made the conversation easier to carry.

  “How have you been?” Sorian asked after a few steps.

  The question felt strangely ordinary. She didn’t know how to answer.

  He kept his eyes forward.

  “Has the Second Ancestral treated you properly?” he added.

  Despite the tension, Lyciah let out a small laugh.

  “Yes. He’s treated me well. You don’t need to worry.”

  Sorian nodded slowly.

  For a moment, it seemed the exchange might remain nothing more than an awkward conversation between siblings who didn’t quite know where to begin.

  But he hadn’t asked to speak alone to discuss the weather. And when he finally stopped walking, it was because he could no longer pretend everything was normal—not for another second.

  “Lyciah…” His voice lowered, firmer now. “There’s something you need to know.”

  She stopped a couple of steps ahead and turned to face him.

  “It’s about the seraphi.”

  The word struck her like an invisible lash. Her fingers tightened in the fabric of her dress.

  “What about them?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

  Sorian lowered his gaze briefly, gathering his thoughts.

  “I met one.”

  Her hand fell from the fabric without her noticing. Those words didn’t fit into anything she had ever been taught to believe.

  “That’s not possible.”

  The denial came instantly. Automatic.

  “It is. His name is Azael. He’s a survivor.”

  Survivor. The word hit her square in the chest. His name stirred nothing in her memory, and yet his mere existence was enough to throw everything into disarray.

  She took a step back without realizing.

  “No…” she murmured. “That can’t be. They said no one was left.”

  Sorian watched her carefully, as though measuring how much she could endure.

  “He’s alive,” he continued. “Although…”

  He paused. She slowly lifted her gaze, her heart racing faster.

  A cold gust of wind swept across the path.

  “He’s corrupted.”

  For a moment, Lyciah didn’t react. Her mind tried to reject the idea before allowing it to take shape. She had heard of corruption—black wings, red eyes. Seraphi turned into something unrecognizable.

  But it had always sounded distant. Theoretical. A warning story. Not something real.

  Sorian’s jaw tightened slightly.

  “Azael sought me out,” he went on. “He came to tell me the truth about the massacre.”

  Lyciah swallowed. The massacre of the seraphi. Demons had found where they lived and attacked without mercy, killing them all.

  She had always been told her mother, Misaha, was the only survivor. Misaha herself had died believing that.

  “What truth?” Lyciah asked, her voice shaking.

  Sorian fell silent. It wasn’t an empty silence. It was heavy with images she couldn’t see.

  “One so cruel I couldn’t accept it.”

  She knew him. Sorian wasn’t someone easily unsettled. If something had broken him, it had to be enormous. And precisely because of that, she hesitated. She didn’t press him further.

  “I didn’t trust Azael,” he admitted. “I thought he was unstable. I thought corruption had driven him into delusion… So he took me to someone whose word I couldn’t question.”

  The air between them felt colder now. A faint, uneasy chill crept up Lyciah’s spine.

  “To whom?”

  Sorian met her eyes directly.

  “To the seraphi prince.”

  The world made no dramatic sound. No tremor. No violent wind. Only the distant rustle of leaves. But something inside Lyciah cracked.

  “No… that… that doesn’t make sense,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her forehead. “The prince died with the others.”

  The death of the royal family had been the final certainty. Proof that nothing from her mother’s world had survived.

  “Prince Sariel is alive,” Sorian insisted, his voice steady.

  At the sound of the name, something dangerous stirred beneath her fear: hope.

  Clumsy, childish hope. The same kind she had learned to bury after her mother’s death. The same hope Heliora had crushed beneath speeches about duty and sacrifice.

  “Where is he?” she asked, her voice low and trembling.

  “In Spain.” He paused briefly, rubbing the back of his neck. “He founded a company under the pseudonym Orion. He’s well known. Influential.”

  The contrast unsettled her more than any revelation so far.

  “What? Orion? And he has… a company?”

  The wind lifted strands of white hair around her bewildered face. Sorian nodded.

  “It’s called Second Light.”

  Something about the name made her chest tighten.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “It offers a very specific service,” he continued, in that measured tone he used when he needed every word to land properly. “It allows people to see a deceased loved one again for a limited time.”

  It took several seconds for the meaning to fully settle.

  “That’s not…”

  Her voice faded before she could finish.

  “It materializes memories,” Sorian explained. “Not real souls. Physical reconstructions based on the client’s memory. You can speak to them. Touch them. Say goodbye.”

  He paused, weighing how much to say.

  “It’s a gift unique to seraphi royalty. They’ve always been able to give tangible form to memory. It isn’t summoning. It isn’t necromancy. It’s… manifestation.”

  Lyciah brought a hand to her chin, thoughtful, a bead of cold sweat sliding down her temple. She had read about it in one of Elyndra’s library volumes. She remembered the line almost word for word: Royal blood does not create life, but it can grant memory a body. She had taken it as symbolic. A poetic metaphor.

  But it was real. And Sariel—the seraphi prince—possessed that power.

  “It’s been an absolute success,” Sorian continued. “Who wouldn’t want to see someone they’ve lost?”

  She didn’t answer. The answer was so obvious it hurt.

  Her mother.

  Misaha’s image rose in her mind with painful clarity—warm hands, white hair falling over her shoulders, that smile that made the world feel as though nothing could ever be urgent.

  “But…” Sorian lowered his voice slightly. “Recently the service has become extremely limited. Sariel told me the system is reaching its end.”

  Lyciah frowned. Sorian was simply repeating what he had been told, like someone delivering a message without fully grasping its weight.

  He slipped a hand inside his cloak and withdrew an envelope.

  “He gave me this for you.”

  It wasn’t ostentatious. Thick ivory paper. Sealed with white wax.

  “Open it.”

  She hesitated only a second before taking it and breaking the seal.

  Inside was a single sheet. The handwriting was elegant, precise, unmistakably refined. It wasn’t signed as Orion, but as Sariel.

  Her eyes moved across the page:

  To Lyciah, daughter of Misaha,

  Permit me to present myself as what I am, rather than as what the world knows me to be. My name is Sariel.

  For years, my work at the head of Second Light has been to grant the living one final encounter with that which they cherish. I do not summon souls from beyond. I do not alter the course of death. I materialize memory with the purity granted to me by royal blood.

  It would be an honor to meet you—not as a client, but as the daughter of she whose light marked an era.

  I wish to offer you the truth you seek.

  And, should you desire it, the final service my company may provide. This shall be the last time Second Light opens its doors. I would consider it a privilege if it were you who closed them.

  With due respect,

  Sariel.

  A trembling breath escaped her.

  Lyciah, daughter of Misaha. Not Dawnbringer. Not the title everyone used.

  Her heart ached.

  “The last time…” she whispered.

  Her fingers tightened slightly around the paper.

  The last time. The last chance to see her mother. To feel her hands again. To speak without urgency. Without battle. Without a hurried farewell shaped by sacrifice.

  She felt something crack inside her chest. It wasn’t weakness—it was longing. Raw, desperate longing.

  Sorian watched her carefully, but didn’t interfere.

  Her gaze dropped to the name at the bottom of the letter.

  Sariel.

  The prince. Alive. Offering her truth. Offering her mother.

  She closed her eyes for a moment. Thought of her mother smiling. And knew she wouldn’t be able to ignore that invitation.

  “I refused to use the service,” Sorian said gently. “But… you should meet the prince, the way I did.”

  Carefully, Lyciah placed the envelope inside her small bag.

  “If anyone can tell you the truth about the seraphi, it’s him,” Sorian continued. “Not Heliora. Not a book rewritten by generations. Not even me. Him.”

  That constant knot of doubt and suspicion inside her loosened, just a little.

  “I’ll go.”

  Sorian lowered his gaze and exhaled. His shoulders eased.

  “Then we’ll talk again when you return,” he said. “When you know the truth.”

  “You’re not coming with me?”

  He shook his head softly.

  “No.” A small smile formed—sad, but steady. “I’m going back to Azael.”

  A pull tightened in her chest.

  He stepped forward and embraced her without reservation. Not awkward. Not formal. It was real. Strong… almost desperate.

  It took her a second to return it. Then she rested her face against his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “I was an idiot. I tried to drag you back into a cage. I thought it was right. That I was protecting you. But I was only… only…”

  He couldn’t finish.

  She pulled back just enough to look at him.

  “I know,” she said softly. “I know you wanted what was best for me.”

  Her hands clung to his clothes for one moment longer.

  “I forgive you.”

  He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. A clumsy, relieved smile appeared.

  “Thank you, Lyciah.”

  He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

  “Take care.”

  “You too, Sorian.”

  The embrace slowly unraveled, as if neither wanted to be the first to let go completely. But eventually, they did. Because farewells—like decisions—cannot be postponed forever.

  Sorian turned and walked away. Lyciah watched him until his figure disappeared down the street. For a moment, she felt the urge to call out and stop him—but she didn’t.

  She stood there a few seconds longer, letting the cold air steady her chest. Then she turned on her heel, ready to return to them. To that strange, new place she had begun—without even noticing—to call home.

  She spotted them a few streets down. Caelan stood with his back to the road, alert to any movement; Elric leaned against the wall, pretending to be calm; and Seliane… Seliane rocked lightly on her heels, unable to keep still.

  Caelan saw her first. His posture shifted immediately, tension leaving his shoulders.

  “Lyciah.”

  Just her name. But there was relief in it.

  Before he could add anything else, Seliane rushed toward her.

  “You’re back!”

  She hugged her with completely disproportionate force. Lyciah let out a muffled sound… then laughed. She lifted her arms and hugged her back.

  Elric approached with apparent composure, though his steps had been faster than usual.

  “You’re overreacting, Sel. She talked to her brother for five minutes. She didn’t cross the Abyss.”

  Seliane’s head snapped up.

  “You don’t know that!”

  “I do,” he replied with a crooked smile. “If she had crossed the Abyss, you’d be crying a lot louder.”

  She frowned but didn’t let go of Lyciah.

  Caelan stepped forward, studying her as though he needed to confirm with his own eyes that she was unharmed.

  “Are you all right?”

  Lyciah nodded—and this time it wasn’t automatic. She wasn’t alone anymore. They were her choice. Her refuge. Her home.

  “I’ll tell you what Sorian and I talked about,” she said at last, a new steadiness in her voice. “Let’s go home. Back to Momo.”

  No one questioned her. No one hesitated. They simply walked together.

  Lyciah had barely set foot on the first step when the front door swung open.

  Momoru stood in the doorway, ears tilted forward as though he’d been tracking every sound from the street. His gaze swept quickly over the group, lingering on Caelan. He blinked, caught off guard.

  “Well. I didn’t expect the Second Ancestral to pay us a visit as well.”

  Seliane let out a stifled laugh. Caelan didn’t rise to it. Lyciah glanced at him and only then realized how close he was standing. She stepped away at once, flustered.

  Momoru gestured lightly toward Elric. “Although, to be fair… he practically lives here already.”

  Elric shifted, cheeks flushing pink. “I—I don’t! Don’t look at me like that!”

  They laughed, and the tightness Lyciah had carried since speaking with Sorian began to ease, just a little.

  Once inside, she moved toward Momoru and gently tugged at the sleeve of his shirt. He turned to her with a soft, questioning hum, full attention settling on her face.

  “Momo… we ran into Sorian.”

  He went still at once, ears tightening. Seeing it, Lyciah hurried on.

  “He didn’t try to take me back. He didn’t force anything. I promise. Something’s changed in him.”

  The kitsune studied her a second longer than necessary before finally relaxing.

  They gathered in the living room.

  Seliane dropped onto the sofa, Elric taking the spot beside her. Lyciah sat close to Momoru. Caelan claimed the chair opposite them, back straight as a medieval statue placed in a living room far too small for his ancestral dignity.

  It felt like assigned seating. Positions assumed without a word.

  Lyciah drew in a breath.

  “I think Sorian’s uncovered something involving Queen Heliora. He didn’t tell me exactly what… but he doesn’t speak like he used to. He didn’t sound like that blindly loyal general anymore.”

  No one interrupted. They exchanged brief glances, letting her finish. She hesitated, then continued.

  “He also told me I need to meet someone. The founder of a company called… Orion. He runs Second Light.”

  Elric arched a brow. “Second Light?”

  Caelan nodded slowly. “The Spanish company that materializes the memories of the deceased.”

  Seliane frowned and looked to Elric as if assuming he’d provide clarification.

  “That’s real? I thought it was an urban legend with expensive marketing.”

  “It’s very real,” Elric replied. “They offer physical reconstructions based on memory. Tangible farewells. It’s been covered in the press more than once.”

  Seliane held his gaze for a moment, absorbing that, then nodded calmly.

  Lyciah laced her fingers together in her lap. The name Sariel stuck in her throat.

  “Sorian gave me an invitation,” she went on, her voice quieter now. “The service is about to close. Orion wants me to use it… one last time.”

  Seliane understood first.

  “To see your mother.”

  Lyciah nodded. But something tightened inside her.

  The words she hadn’t spoken weighed more than the ones she had. Orion wasn’t just a businessman. It wasn’t just an invitation. She had left too much unsaid. And they trusted her without hesitation.

  Guilt slipped beneath her skin.

  “I don’t know if…” She faltered. “I don’t know if I should even ask you to come with me. I’m not sure I deserve that.”

  Seliane’s head snapped up as if personally offended.

  “Excuse me?”

  Elric gave a short laugh.

  “Right. We’ll just let you cross half the country alone to meet a businessman who brings the dead into your living room. Brilliant plan.”

  Momoru shook his head, almost amused.

  “Lyciah…”

  Caelan spoke with his usual calm certainty.

  “We’re coming with you.”

  It wasn’t an offer. It was a fact.

  Lyciah looked at each of them in turn. Warmth spread through her chest again—steadier this time. She wouldn’t walk through that door alone.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  The conversation soon shifted into practical plans. Caelan and Elric returned to their apartment to prepare; they would leave the following day.

  The house felt quieter once the door closed behind them.

  Lyciah headed upstairs.

  Momoru’s bedroom door stood half open. He had his back to it, folding clothes before placing them carefully into a small suitcase.

  She tapped lightly on the wood with her knuckles. His ears flicked. He turned to face her directly.

  “Something wrong?” he asked in his usual paternal tone—warm, attentive.

  “Can we talk… privately?”

  He didn’t question her further. He simply gestured calmly toward the edge of the bed. Lyciah closed the door carefully and sat, hands intertwined in her lap. Momoru remained opposite her in the desk chair, waiting.

  “There’s more,” she said at last. “Orion isn’t just a businessman. And… I feel awful for not saying it in front of the others.”

  Her voice cracked.

  “I left things out. I didn’t want to lie to them, but… I’m scared to tell the truth. I’m scared it’ll change the way they look at me.”

  Momoru didn’t interrupt or rush her. He just listened.

  Her fingers tightened.

  “Orion isn’t his real name.” She hesitated before continuing, eyes dropping. “His real name is Sariel… and he’s the seraphi prince.”

  The impact showed. Momoru’s whole body went rigid. His eyes widened slightly. For a brief moment, he was clearly processing it—but when he spoke, his voice remained the same. Gentle. Steady.

  “I see.”

  It wasn’t empty. It was a deliberate choice not to react impulsively.

  “It’s natural to be afraid, Lyciah,” he added quietly. “You don’t have to tell them everything at once.”

  “But I’m hiding something important from them…”

  He looked at her with that tenderness that had always been there.

  “When you’re ready to tell them the whole truth, they’ll understand. They love you. That won’t change because of one more truth or one less.”

  She felt the guilt loosen, if only slightly.

  Leaning forward, she wrapped her arms around him. Momoru embraced her without hesitation, resting his chin gently atop her head.

  “Thank you,” she whispered into his shoulder.

  They stayed like that for several seconds. When they finally pulled apart, Lyciah discreetly wiped at her eyes before continuing.

  “Sorian also told me Sariel revealed a truth about the seraphi massacre… and I can’t shake the feeling it has something to do with Queen Heliora. He doesn’t sound loyal to her anymore. Like something’s changed.”

  For a second, Momoru stopped being the composed man who always knew what to say. Surprise crossed his face unmasked. But instead of asking questions, he looked at her—as though what mattered wasn’t the past, but how it was weighing on her now.

  “I’m going,” Lyciah went on, “but not just to use the service. I want to hear that truth from the prince directly.”

  Momoru nodded slowly, still silent.

  Lyciah turned her gaze toward the window. Somewhere out there, Sariel was waiting for her with a truth he had kept for far too long.