The palace did not return to silence right away.

  It took time.

  At first, there were only echoes: footsteps that no longer ran, orders repeated out of habit rather than urgency, the constant rustle of cloth, bandages, damaged armor. Then, slowly, the air began to settle, as if Sel?nrah itself were finally releasing a breath it had held for far too long.

  Neyrs was transported to the chamber once again in a long sleep that she may not return.

  We stayed together in one of the inner corridors. No one asked us to move. No one dared to.

  Velka was sitting on the floor, leaning against a cracked column. She kept her back straight out of pure pride, but her hands trembled faintly—a fine, almost invisible shake that did not match the forced calm of her breathing. The bandage at her side was no longer bleeding, yet it burned with something different, alive, like a scar that had not yet decided what shape it would take.

  Neyra remained beside her, crouched low, not touching her. Watchful. Focused on every subtle change in Velka’s breathing, as if looking away for even a moment might be enough for the world to break apart again.

  Caelia moved back and forth in silence. She adjusted bandages, brought water, cleared small fragments of stone from the passage. No one asked her to do any of it. She simply assumed the role, as always, with that steady calm that holds when everything else gives way.

  I watched them with a stillness that was not peace, but restraint.

  The scar on my abdomen was still warm, still aware. Blood Crown was no longer in my hand, yet its weight remained, invisible, like a promise that could not be undone just because the fight was over.

  Further ahead, the Guardians of Al-Rahad were reorganizing.

  Zayrah gave short, precise instructions, never raising her voice.

  Irsah tended to the wounded with her unbroken serenity, murmuring words that were not quite prayers, but close enough to hold.

  The Sultan had not appeared yet.

  And though no one said it aloud, her absence hung in the air like a suspended question.

  Then, for the first time since the disaster, someone allowed themselves to truly exhale.

  It was not a laugh.

  It was not a sob.

  Just the fragile, human sound of still being alive.

  Not every loss carried a name the world would remember.

  Once the movement began to settle into order, that was the first thing they did: count those who were missing. Not out loud, not with urgency, but with the weary precision that only comes after accepting there is nothing left to do.

  I watched as several palace soldiers were laid out in one of the inner courtyards, away from the thickest dust and the damaged corridors. They were not arranged as trophies or warnings. They were placed with care, covered with simple blankets—the same ones that, hours earlier, had been used to stop bleeding or shield bodies from the cold night air.

  Some were young.

  Others were not.

  All of them wore the same still expression, one that did not distinguish rank.

  Zayrah stopped beside them. She gave no orders. She simply stood there for a few seconds, head slightly bowed. Irsah was the one who broke the silence, murmuring soft words as she placed small symbols of sand beside each body. It was not a long rite. It was not elaborate. It was enough.

  I approached slowly. No one stopped me.

  I did not know them. I did not know their names. But they had run when the palace shook, had raised weapons against something they did not fully understand, and that alone was reason enough for them to deserve more than oblivion.

  Velka watched from behind, silent. She was not joking now.

  Neyra stood with her arms crossed, brow furrowed, as if trying to memorize every face so they would not be entirely lost.

  Caelia knelt beside one of them and adjusted the blanket covering his chest, with the same care she used when tightening our bandages.

  There were no speeches.

  No heroic promises.

  Only a shared, quiet moment, to accept that victory—if it could even be called that—was also built on absence.

  When we finally stepped away, the courtyard remained lit by low lamps and the constant murmur of the desert. Sel?nrah did not sing. It held its breath.

  And for the first time since everything began, I understood something with painful clarity:

  Not everyone who carries a war has magic in their blood.

  But everyone pays the price.

  Night finally settled over the palace like a heavy blanket. It didn’t extinguish anything; it only slowed everything down.

  We gathered in one of the inner courtyards that had survived. It wasn’t a hall, nor a ceremonial space—just a square of stone open to the sky, with low lamps and improvised cushions. Guardians and Shadows sharing the same place, but not the same grief.

  And that could be felt.

  The Guardians occupied the center without needing to say it. We stayed around them, not out of rejection, but instinct. Ahlia wasn’t our sister-in-arms. We hadn’t grown with her. We hadn’t learned her rhythm or her voice. This grief wasn’t ours, and none of us tried to claim it.

  For a while, no one spoke.

  Then came the small things: a jug passed between familiar hands, bread broken with gestures learned by heart, the sound of wine poured into uneven cups. It wasn’t a celebration. It was a ritual.

  Mahtani was the first to break the silence.

  —Ahlia hated sweet wine—she said, staring at her cup without drinking.—She said it was a pretty lie.

  Zayrah inclined her head. Irsah closed her eyes for a moment, as if that sentence fit too perfectly into an old memory.

  —She always said that if she was going to get drunk—Mahtani continued—she preferred it to hurt a little… so she wouldn’t forget the next day why she had done it.

  Her voice didn’t break right away. She held for a few more words… until she couldn’t.

  She set the cup down on the stone with excessive care, as if even the sound might shatter something beyond repair.

  —She saved my life—she said at last.—More than once. And today… today I wasn’t even there to return the favor.

  The air grew heavy.

  No one contradicted her.

  No one tried to comfort her.

  Because that kind of pain accepts no shortcuts.

  Zayrah rested a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t say anything. Irsah murmured a quiet prayer, barely audible—old words that didn’t need an answer.

  We watched in silence.

  Velka lowered her gaze. Neyra pressed her lips together. Caelia remained still, as if she understood that her role wasn’t to intervene, but to hold the space.

  I looked up at the open sky above the courtyard. I thought of Ahlia only through what I had seen: steady hands, a calm voice, a presence that seemed to hold together what was already broken. I thought of what someone like that leaves behind when they disappear… even for those of us who barely knew her.

  It wasn’t a formal farewell.

  It wasn’t a tribute meant for everyone.

  It was their grief, and we were there so it wouldn’t be alone.

  Then I felt it.

  Not footsteps.

  Not words.

  A shift in the air. A soft, ancient pressure, approaching without needing to announce itself.

  The Sultan was coming.

  No one needed to announce her arrival.

  We felt it before we saw her.

  The murmur of the courtyard faded little by little, as if even the lamps had learned to keep silent. The air changed—not heavier, but older, like a story too ancient deciding to walk again.

  The Sultana emerged from the shadows of the corridor.

  She did not hurry.

  She did not come with guards.

  She walked slowly, leaning lightly on a simple staff that bore no jewels nor symbols of power. Mahtani stood at her side, attentive, and Zayrah followed a step behind, faithful as a shadow. Azhara Qamar al-Sel?n’s pale robe seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it.

  Her eyes swept over the courtyard.

  The Guardians first.

  Then us.

  When she spoke, her voice was not loud. It did not need to be.

  —Daughters of the sand… —she said— and daughters of the storm.

  I felt the weight of those words settle in my chest, as if she were naming us not by origin, but by what we had endured.

  The Sultana advanced a little more and stopped before the improvised circle. Her hands—thin, marked by time—interlaced over the staff.

  —Tonight —she continued— Sel?nrah has bled. And when the land bleeds, it does so through those who love it.

  Her gaze lingered on Mahtani. Then on Zayrah. On Irsah. On each of the Guardians who had lost something that would never return.

  —I will not ask you for words —she said— nor for strength. You have already given both beyond what any throne should ever demand.

  She drew a slow breath.

  For a moment, I thought she might falter. She did not. But something in her expression—something small, barely perceptible—raised the hair on my arms. As if she were holding herself upright by sheer will.

  —My magic answered today —the Sultana admitted—. Not as it once did. Not without cost.

  Mahtani’s jaw tightened. Zayrah lowered her gaze.

  —That price I do not yet fully understand —she added—. And perhaps I never will. But know this: I do not regret it.

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  She lifted her face toward us.

  —You fought when the palace fell. When fear took shape. When a witch believed she could claim what this land has protected since before names existed.

  I felt her gaze settle on me.

  —Lyssandra Velcrux —she said, clear and unhesitating—. What runs in your blood does not separate you from this desert. It binds you to it.

  I swallowed.

  —What was revealed here —she continued, now looking at all of us— does not belong to archives, nor armies, nor thrones. It belongs to living memory. And that memory… is now also your responsibility.

  The silence was absolute.

  —Sel?nrah will not forget this night —she said at last—. Nor those who rose for her. Nor those who fell.

  She inclined her head, just slightly.

  Not as a queen.

  But as the mother of a wounded land.

  —Rest. Grieve if you must. Remain together. —Her voice softened—. Tomorrow… we will speak of tomorrow.

  Zayrah stepped forward. It was the signal.

  The Sultana turned slowly, and as she walked away, I knew with certainty that this use of power—the one that saved lives—had not yet finished collecting its debt.

  And that one day… the sand would ask something of her in return.

  The celebration didn’t begin with music.

  It began with food.

  Dishes appeared almost without warning, carried by tired hands that no longer trembled the same way. Bread still warm, spiced meat cut without precision, fruit split open in haste that stained our fingers. Jugs of thick wine someone decided to uncork without asking, as if the simple act were a declaration: we’re still here.

  We sat in the inner courtyard, beneath a sky that—for the first time in days—didn’t seem to be watching us.

  There were no speeches.

  No solemn toasts.

  Just exhausted bodies sinking into cushions, blankets, stone steps. Guards with damaged armor laughing softly, as if raising their voices might break something fragile. Servants leaning against columns, eating in silence, breathing at last without hurry.

  Velka was the first to break the stillness.

  —Well —she said, lifting her cup with the hand that was responding better—. I officially declare that I’m still alive. Which, honestly, feels like an unexpected plot twist.

  A few laughs escaped. Not all, but enough.

  Neyra shook her head, though her mouth betrayed her.

  —Don’t get too excited —she replied—. You could still lose to alcohol poisoning.

  —Dying drunk would be consistent with my legacy —Velka shot back, and this time the laughter was more open, more real.

  Caelia sat nearby, calmly cleaning a ceremonial blade she hadn’t used in the battle. Not out of necessity, but out of habit. A way of ordering herself.

  —Eat slowly —she said—. No one wins anything by collapsing now.

  Mahtani stayed a little apart, her arm still bandaged, listening to Luma talk nonstop while gesturing with a cup in her hand. Irsah observed everything with that serenity of hers that seemed to soften the air around her.

  The Guardians of Al-Rahad moved among us without stiffness, sharing food, exchanging low words, simple gestures. Not as ceremonial figures, but as exhausted women who had survived an impossible night.

  I leaned back slightly, feeling the warmth of Velka’s body resting against mine, trusting. Caelia was close enough to touch my shoulder if I needed it. Neyra drank in small sips, watchful as always.

  —Hey, princess —Velka murmured, lowering her voice—. If I wake up tomorrow and all of this was a hallucination… promise you won’t make me repeat it.

  —It wasn’t a hallucination —I answered—. And you’re not alone.

  She smiled. Tired. Real.

  —I know. That’s why I’m still here.

  The night moved slowly forward. The wine warmed our throats. The bread ran out. Laughter returned little by little, timid, like animals discovering the fire was over.

  We weren’t celebrating a victory.

  We were celebrating staying together.

  Breathing.

  Our bodies aching, but standing.

  And for that night… that was enough.

  It wasn’t a formal agreement.

  Not an order.

  Not even a planned conversation.

  It was… inevitable.

  The wine no longer warmed as much. The laughter had faded into tired embers, and the courtyard was wrapped in that soft silence that only exists when no one is in a hurry to fill the void.

  I looked at them.

  At Velka, leaning on her side, cup loose between her fingers, eyes half-closed—more alive than ever despite everything.

  At Neyra, awake even in rest, her mind still turning, stitching together pieces no one else could see.

  At Caelia, steady, present, as if her posture alone kept the world from collapsing.

  I drew a slow breath.

  —None of what we saw here… —I began, my voice lower than I expected— …was in Seravenn.

  No one answered right away. There was no need.

  —The Mothers. —I swallowed—. The second heart. Nerys. What we are… and what we could become.

  Velka opened one eye.

  —Is that a question or a statement? —she murmured.

  —Both —I replied—. Because if this leaves this place… they won’t protect it. They’ll use it.

  Neyra nodded slowly.

  —Or they’ll break it trying to understand it —she added—. They’ve done that before.

  Caelia set the knife aside. She looked straight at me, no detours.

  —This isn’t knowledge. It’s identity —she said—. And identity isn’t handed over. It’s guarded.

  Silence settled again, but this time it was different. Heavier. Truer.

  Velka pushed herself up on one elbow.

  —Then let’s say it clearly —she said, no smile, no fear—. What happened in Al-Rahad… is ours.

  She looked at me first.

  —Your blood.

  Then at Neyra.

  —Your obsession with understanding everything.

  Then at Caelia.

  —And your habit of carrying more than your share.

  She exhaled softly.

  —We don’t owe it to anyone else.

  Neyra raised her cup, just a little.

  —Not to the Academy.

  —Not to the Council —Caelia added.

  —Not to any throne —I finished.

  I clinked my cup against Neyra’s. Then Caelia’s. Velka nearly spilled hers in the process, but that only earned a tired smile.

  —Then let’s promise this —I said, feeling Blood Crown pulse slowly, as if listening—. Whatever happens… we won’t let anyone decide for us what we are.

  —Or what we’re allowed to feel —Velka added.

  —Or who we’re meant to protect —Caelia finished.

  Neyra lowered her cup.

  —And if one day one of us crosses a line… the others will be there. Not to judge. To stop her.

  That was what sealed it.

  Not magic.

  Not blood.

  Not ancient oaths.

  Just four women looking each other in the eyes and accepting, for the first time, that the world was larger… and more dangerous… than they had been told.

  And that, even so, we would face it together.

  It wasn’t during the celebration.

  It was after.

  When the noise had already faded and only that good, heavy exhaustion remained—the kind that settles into your bones after surviving something that should never have existed.

  We were summoned one by one. No visible urgency. No escort. Just a palace attendant asking for our presence, head bowed, voice low.

  Azhara was waiting.

  The chamber was almost dark, lit only by oil lamps. There was no throne. No ceremonial symbols. Just a low table… and on it, a communicator sealed with the emblem of Seravenn.

  The mark of the Council of the Seven Veils.

  —This arrived a few minutes ago —she said, without preamble—. It was addressed to you.

  The device activated with a sharp pulse of light. Seravenn’s symbol unfolded in the air—cold, precise, unmistakable.

  The voice that followed was neutral. Measured. Too polished.

  —Shadows of the Crown —it said—. By order of the Council of the Seven Veils, you are instructed to return to Seravenn immediately.

  No one spoke.

  —Irregular strategic movements have been detected along the northern frontier —the voice continued—. This is not an open attack… yet. But territorial balance has begun to shift.

  I felt Neyra tense beside me. Caelia lifted her gaze, alert. Velka let out a short breath, humorless.

  —Your presence is required for evaluation, preparation, and contingency —the voice concluded—. This order is not negotiable.

  The symbol vanished.

  The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.

  It was dense.

  —They’re not saying we’re under attack —Velka muttered—. That’s the worst part.

  —They’re saying they expect something to happen —Caelia replied—. And they don’t want to face it without us.

  Neyra crossed her arms.

  —Or something already happened… and we’re the last to know.

  Azhara studied us in silence for a few seconds. Then she spoke, her calm hiding nothing.

  —This isn’t a desperate call —she said—. It’s a preventive one. And when Seravenn moves like this… it’s usually because fear reached the right rooms first.

  I nodded slowly.

  I didn’t feel surprise.

  I felt confirmation.

  —Then we’re returning —I said.

  It wasn’t a question.

  And for the first time since setting foot in Al-Rahad, I understood that calm was not a gift…

  it was a farewell.

  They drove us to the runway as the sky began to pale, that color that is neither night nor day, the kind that always smells like something unfinished.

  The palace fell behind us between long shadows and walls still bearing the marks of battle. I didn’t need to look at it for long to know that Al-Rahad still stood… but no longer untouched.

  The vehicles stopped one by one, and we stepped out in silence. The aircraft waited with its lights on, still, patient, as if it already knew we would not return the same.

  Zayrah was the first to approach. She didn’t ask permission—she took my forearms and rested her forehead against mine, an ancient gesture, reserved only for those who have already shared something that cannot be given back.

  —Lyssandra Velcrux —she spoke my full name with a weight that wasn’t ceremonial—. What happened here will not be lost to the sand. Not for this land… and not for us.

  I nodded slowly.

  —If Al-Rahad calls for us —I said—, we’ll come.

  Mahtani stepped forward next, carrying that stubborn energy that defines her even when everything hurts. She hugged me hard, brief, as if she didn’t want to give either of us time to feel too much.

  —Don’t take too long to come back, princess of magic —she murmured—. Next time, I want a fair duel. No madwomen playing at goddesses.

  —Deal —I replied, and we both knew nothing would ever be simple again.

  Irsah inclined her head in a small, contained gesture.

  —Return whole —she said—. All of you.

  Velka raised her free hand and smiled sideways, that insolent spark still there, refusing to die out.

  —Take care of the desert for us —she said—. We don’t like coming back to places that forget our names.

  Neyra and Caelia said goodbye the way they always did: no grand words, just a brief touch to the chest, a silent pact between those who recognize each other without explanation.

  We climbed the ramp together. As the hatch began to close and the engines came to life, I looked one last time at the runway, the figures growing smaller amid dust and wind.

  I didn’t feel relief.

  I felt readiness.

  We were returning to Seravenn…

  not because everything was over,

  but because something, somewhere, had already begun to move.

  Returning to the base after Al-Rahad felt like coming home with my hands full of fire, not knowing where to set it down without burning everything.

  Venesse was there, waiting beneath the lintel, her coat free of insignia, her gaze soft and tired in the way only someone who doesn’t need titles to be a mother can be. Her eyes swept over our reddened burns, the fresh bandages, the tension still locked into our shoulders.

  —My goddesses… —she murmured, a tired laugh slipping into a sigh—. Tell me you at least brought back some sand for a zen garden, since you roasted yourselves alive out there.

  Velka, who had only been herself in fragments since Al-Rahad, rolled her eyes, but there was an unfamiliar warmth in her voice when she answered:

  —Mom, if you’d gone with us, you’d be just as bad—or worse. Admit it.

  Venesse snorted, pressing a hand to her chest in exaggerated offense.

  —I missed you, Velka. Even your sarcasm smooths out my wrinkles.

  We entered the academy and everything was the same...

  Then she opened her arms and looked at me. I didn’t need words—I ran straight into her embrace.

  —Welcome home, Lyss… —she kissed my forehead, as if she could brush all the desert sand off me with that single gesture—. Welcome home, all of you.

  We entered the academy and everything was the same...

  We arrived to her office and sat us down in her office like a squad of unruly girls: pen in hand, notebook open, expression steady.

  —Speak. Everything. Even what must never reach the Queen’s ears.

  We told her.

  From the burning sand to the voice of a Mother who should not exist. From Yareen’s escape to the price Al-Rahad paid just to survive. We left nothing out.

  When she closed the notebook and sealed it shut, Venesse took a slow breath.

  —Lyssandra. Alone with me. Now.

  The others left without protest. Velka gave Venesse a brief, shy wink; after confessing her love first, she seemed to trust her more than anyone.

  When the door closed, Venesse looked at me with those eyes that always seemed to know everything—and still wanted to hear it.

  —What else, Lyss? —she said—. I can feel it vibrating behind your teeth.

  I swallowed.

  —Venesse… why did no one ever tell us about the Thirteen? They knew something. Why…?

  She didn’t look away. She stepped closer and held my face in her warm hands.

  —It was a direct order from the Queen. One I never agreed with. —She sighed, her fingers brushing my scar—. She believed hiding it would protect you. Now I see it was a mistake. A lie that stole your foundations.

  I closed my eyes, breathing against her palms.

  —And now…?

  —Now I ask something of you, Lyssandra Velcrux. —She spoke my full name as if weaving an oath around it—. Keep this truth to yourself and to your sisters, the Shadows of the Crown. I will see to it that the correct history is revealed… when the world won’t break from hearing it.

  I nodded.

  —I promise.

  Venesse kissed my forehead once more.

  —My beloved storm. You are not the first Wrath… but you will always be my child.

  When I stepped out, Caelia was waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall, adjusting the straps of her gear. Venesse stopped in front of her, studying her with an almost reverent focus.

  —Caelia —she said softly, but firmly—. What you saw and heard in Al-Rahad is not an object to be locked away in a vault. It is living memory.

  Caelia met her gaze without blinking.

  —I will not speak a word that should not be spoken.

  Venesse nodded, satisfied.

  —Then Nerys’s legacy will remain safe… as long as one of you still breathes.

  We returned to our room when the base was already asleep.

  There were no grand words, no solemn farewells. Just real exhaustion—the kind that doesn’t ask permission and bends your bones from the inside out. Caelia closed the door gently, as if afraid of waking something more than the guards in the hallway. Neyra set her gear down with almost ritual precision. Velka collapsed onto the bed first, on her side, murmuring something unintelligible before going still.

  I stayed standing a moment longer.

  Watching them.

  Four bodies marked by war, breathing in the same rhythm by pure coincidence. No armor. No masks. Just us, in silence, trying to remember what it felt like to exist without being on alert.

  I sat on my bed and rested my elbows on my knees. Blood of the Crown pulsed slowly beneath my skin—not like a threat… but like a reminder.

  I closed my eyes.

  I saw sand.

  I saw water suspended in the air.

  I saw a heart that should not exist… breaking.

  I didn’t feel fear.

  I felt something worse: certainty.

  That what happened in Al-Rahad had closed nothing.

  That Yareen had only been the visible wound of something far deeper.

  That Seravenn’s summons was not a warning… but a confession of fragility.

  Velka shifted in her sleep and reached out, finding my hand without opening her eyes. I squeezed it gently. Caelia breathed slow, anchored to the world. Neyra, even asleep, seemed to be counting possibilities.

  I turned off the light.

  In the darkness, for the first time since we left, exhaustion claimed me.

  But as sleep finally took hold, one thought remained awake:

  None of this was over.

  We had only learned how to wait.

  And what comes after waiting…

  never arrives in silence.