The plaza went silent.
Only two figures remained.
Kael.
The last living singer of the original lullaby.
Her name—if she ever had one—was gone. Only the title remained: First Keeper.
Her brille-blue eyes, sharp and endless, pierced him like winter itself.
"You should have stayed empty," she said.
"It would have hurt less," Kael replied, rolling his shoulder, cracking his neck.
Wrathbinder felt strange in hands that had never held anything but shadow—but it was warm from Veyra's grip. That was enough.
He charged.
CLANG! Steel met instinct.
Kael came in low, blade arcing for her ribs.
She sidestepped without moving, palm brushing the flat of Wrathbinder.
SSSHHHT! Frost spider-webbed across the metal, biting his palms like acid.
He didn't let go. Spun. Overhead swing. Brutal.
She caught the blade between two fingers.
BONG! The impact rang like a cathedral bell. Ice exploded outward—shattering cobblestones, slicing the air into razor flakes.
Kael's breath crystallized mid-exhale.
He ripped the sword free and drove his knee into her gut.
She took it without flinching, then flicked her wrist.
CRACK! A whip of frozen starlight lashed across his chest. Armor, shirt, skin—split in a red-white line. Blood flash-froze on contact.
Second exchange.
Kael feinted high, dropped low, swept for her legs.
She stepped over the blade, heel smashing into his collarbone.
SNAP! Pain flared white-hot.
He rolled, came up swinging. Wrathbinder carved a burning pink arc.
She raised a hand. The air folded.
The strike hit a wall of absolute zero. Stopped an inch from her throat.
Frost raced up the blade, his arms, his lungs.
Kael coughed blood that turned to red snowflakes.
Third exchange.
He let go of the sword. Drove forward, empty-handed. Wrapped his arms around her waist. Lifted. Slammed her into the stone. CRASH! The plaza cratered.
For a heartbeat, he was on top. Then she smiled.
"Enough games."
Temperature plummeted beyond anything natural. The world went white.
WHOOOM! Divine frost—the same cold that had once sealed the newborn Hollow—exploded from her in a perfect sphere.
Kael had half a second to realize. Then it hit.
Every droplet of moisture in his body flash-froze. Skin split along ice fault lines. Blood crystallized in his veins. His heart stuttered, tried to beat—found only glass.
He flew thirty feet, hit the plaza stones, bounced, slid.
Wrathbinder clattered away, pink fire guttering under layers of rime.
The First Keeper rose slowly, untouched, robes pristine. Each footstep left a perfect circle of winter spreading like plague.
Kael tried to push up. Arms shattered at the elbows. CRUNCH! Ice exploded outward in crimson shards. He collapsed again, breathing in wet, frozen rasps.
The Keeper knelt above him, brushing frost from his cheek with fingers colder than fire.
"Shhh," she whispered. "Let me finish what Lirien started."
Her palm pressed to his heart. Silver scar ignited white. Ice speared inward—through muscle, bone, into the place the Hunger used to live.
Kael arched back. A sound tried to leave and froze halfway out.
She leaned close. Lips brushing his ear: "Sleep. Forever this time."
The frost reached his heart.
And stopped.
Because something else was already there.
A single crimson thorn had grown through his chest from the inside out. Pulsing. Warm. Alive.
VEYRA'S VOICE—raw, broken, furious—cut across the plaza like a war horn.
"GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF HIM!"
The First Keeper looked up. Veyra stood twenty feet away, bleeding from eyes, ears, mouth—every thorn forced outward in a living crimson crown. She was smiling. Terrifying.
The thorn in Kael's heart exploded into red vines, wrapping around the Keeper's wrist. YANK!
Divine frost shattered.
Kael gasped—a wet, ragged sound—and lived.
The war had only just begun.