THE UNBROKEN

They left in the dead of night.

No ceremony. No farewells. Only the rhythm of boots on damp earth and the soft creak of leather straps pulled tight across their travel gear, worn for the first time in nearly two years.

Elena and Niegal didn't speak much as they departed Marisiana. There was no need. Grief clung to them like mist. Rage churned beneath their ribs. They moved with grim purpose, and on Elena's back, the Blade of Boinayel pulsed with stormlight. It's obsidian edge humming with the fury of ancient gods.

The blade wept rain where it touched the air.

As they walked, distant thunder answered.

The gods were listening.

The gods were furious.

To reach Veracchia, they would first need to return to Puerto Cuidad, the jewel of the coast- where old money and newer blood once clashed in smoke-filled halls. It was the closest port powerful enough to commission a vessel to cross the Sea of Bones.

And so they walked. Or were carried. Or rode on carts offered by sympathetic strangers who dared not ask for payment.

Because the news had already spread:

"The Stormbearer's child has been taken."

Disbelief rippled through the realm like lightning across open sky. Prayers were whispered in dozens of dialects. Candles burned in windows. Little girls were tucked into bed with tighter arms.

And still, they journeyed on.

Some offered them shelter; a spare room, a loft, a hay-strewn floor under sagging beams. Others simply left food out in the dark, too reverent to look the Storm and the Lion in the eye.

A few muttered their doubts. Too much power in one family, they said. Maybe this was divine rebalancing.

Elena didn't dignify them with fire. But the air around her crackled. The winds grew harsher when she passed.

Let the realm remember what storms could do.

Each night, whether surrounded by strangers or under the open sky, the couple found each other.

It was not passion that guided them, but need. A quiet, aching hunger for reassurance. For touch. For proof of life.

They made love like they were building a bridge through the darkness. Like if they reached far enough, held each other long enough, they'd tether their daughter back to them by spirit alone.

But Niegal's sleep did not come easy.

Each night he dreamt.

Of a crumbling, vine-strangled building with sunken columns and forgotten altars.

Of a black-maned lion pacing before ruined steps, eyes sharp with waiting.

Of fire, blazing, roaring, consuming a funeral pyre with a helmet rolling into the ash.

Of Elena, radiant in power, fighting side by side with that same lion, their backs pressed together beneath a bleeding sky.

He woke each time breathless, fingers twitching as if to summon a sword.

Elena held him through it all.

Her lap became his sanctuary when the world became too heavy. She stroked his temple and murmured old healing chants, their words half-lost to the rush of time, but potent nonetheless.

Her magic could mend bones and seal wounds, but grief was another thing entirely.

She couldn't take the visions from him.

Only witness them.

On the fifth day, the outline of Puerto Cuidad rose on the horizon; sharp towers and steeples rising like jagged teeth from the edge of the world.

They hadn't been back since they destroyed the Holy See in that last, fateful battle.

Now, they stood side by side once more.

Elena's jaw clenched. Niegal's fingers flexed.

The wind shifted.

Above them, black clouds gathered quietly, curling like ink in water.

"To Veracchia," Elena murmured.

Niegal nodded.

"And may the gods pity whoever stands in our way."