Chapter 18
The sun had barely touched the horizon, yet the Crimson Palace shimmered as though lit by a thousand fires. Not the destructive flames that once scorched the battlefield, but something softer—warmth, legacy, the promise of renewal.
Zephyr stood alone on the eastern balcony, the wind tousling his silver hair. For the first time in weeks, there was silence. Not the kind brought by fear or exhaustion, but the kind born after war—after everything worth dying for had been fought for, and survived.
Behind him, the rustle of silk whispered.
Clarissa stepped into view, her form radiant and round with child. She wore a loose lavender robe, tied carefully above her stomach, and a smile that hadn’t come easy in days past. Zephyr turned, and without needing a word, walked over to hold her.
"She kicked again last night," Clarissa said softly, resting her hand over her belly.
"Did she?" Zephyr leaned down, lips brushing her stomach. "Little Flameborn’s already trying to make her mark on the world."
Clarissa chuckled lightly. "She’s yours, after all. She was probably fighting dreams."
They stood like that for a while, watching the horizon brighten.
"Do you ever think about what comes next?" Clarissa asked.
"I try not to. Every time I did, someone tried to steal it away," Zephyr replied.
She took his hand and placed it over her heart. "We won’t let that happen again. Not this time."
Zephyr smiled, but there was a flicker in his eyes. He wasn’t worried for Clarissa anymore. Her body had healed, and the corruption Azeriah left behind was gone, severed by Aelira’s divine touch. The system was quiet. Harmonized. At peace.