The city celebrated.
Lanterns lit the southern districts. Bells rang from the lower towers. Merchants reopened stalls that had been shuttered for weeks. People spoke Alisha's name with reverence, with relief, with gratitude.
She heard none of it.
From the highest balcony of Valoria Palace, Alisha watched the lights flicker to life like constellations brought down to earth. The Eclipse stirred faintly within her, restless—not wounded, but unbalanced.
Something was missing.
Not power.
Presence.
"He hasn't moved," Rowan said quietly from behind her. "The spire reports full stability."
Alisha nodded. "Of course it does."
Silence stretched.
"Say it," Rowan urged gently.
She exhaled. "He's alive. I can feel that much. But it's… distant. Like touching something through glass."
Rowan leaned against the stone rail. "The Shadow King didn't lie, then."
"No," Alisha said. "That's what frightens me."
That night, sleep refused her.
Every room felt too large, too empty. Her hand reached instinctively for a warmth that wasn't there. The bed was untouched on one side—not cold, just unused.
She pressed her palm to her chest and closed her eyes.
Caelan.
The name echoed faintly—not as a call, but as a memory.
At the southern spire, Caelan stood barefoot on cold stone.
The wards hummed softly beneath his skin, no longer foreign, no longer intrusive. They had accepted him—not as a prisoner, but as a cornerstone.
"You don't belong to them," he murmured.
The runes pulsed once, gently.
Belonging, he realized, was the wrong word.
Responsibility.
He looked toward the distant palace, though he knew he couldn't see it from here.
"I miss you," he said aloud, not expecting an answer.
The wind stirred.
For just a moment—just enough to steal his breath—he felt her.
Not the Eclipse.
Alisha.
A brush of awareness. A warmth against his ribs. The faintest sense of fingers lacing with his.
Then it faded.
He smiled faintly.
"She's not letting go," he whispered.
Days passed.
Alisha fulfilled her duties with precision bordering on coldness. Councils. Envoys. Strategy sessions. She spoke clearly, decisively—but something in her gaze had sharpened.
People noticed.
"She's changed," the courtiers whispered.
Yes.
She had.
The Eclipse was no longer just power—it was resolve.
That night, she stood before the ancient mirror in the inner sanctum, one hand pressed to the glass.
"The bond wasn't severed," she said softly. "It was rerouted."
The mirror shimmered.
Dangerous, it warned.
"So is stagnation," Alisha replied.
She straightened.
"I won't undo his sacrifice," she said. "But I won't accept this as permanent either."
The Eclipse stirred—not in defiance, but agreement.
For the first time since the separation, Alisha smiled.