Vaticinia Caelorum- The Prophecy That Destroyed The Heavens

Serenya couldn't move.

Her sword had fallen from her grip. The storm had passed. But the weight in her chest was heavier than ever.

Kael lay in the wreckage of the battlefield—his body bruised, his armor cracked, steam rising from his skin where the lightning had struck him. He wasn't dead. She could see his chest rise. But he wasn't moving.

The crowd was utterly still. No chants. No cheers. Just silence.

No one had expected this. Least of all Serenya.

She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands trembling as she cradled his head in her lap. His curls were damp with rain and sweat, and his skin still sparked faintly with static.

"Brother…" she whispered, choking on her own breath. "I… I didn't mean to."

Kael groaned softly, lips parted. His eyes fluttered. He was breathing—but barely.

"Forgive me," she kept saying. "Forgive me…"

Her voice cracked with every repetition, but a sliver of calm returned as she felt the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers.

He's alive. He's alive.

Then—

"It's okay, Sere…" Kael's voice was weak, fragile, but still somehow full of pride. "It is."

And then, another voice joined his.

"It is," said the Supreme Mother.

Serenya turned sharply.

She hadn't even noticed the ring of guards surrounding them. Her father was there too, pale and silent. And her mother—Queen Elira—stood in the center of it all. Unshaken. Unblinking.

There was no shock on her face.

Only understanding.

Serenya felt it again—those words—repeating in her mind, not spoken aloud but remembered like thunder rolling over the earth:

"This is not a duel you may ever be able to take back. What happens tomorrow… it may shape our future. Or unravel it. For better—or for worse."

A cold wave washed through her, and the fear rooted itself deep—beneath skin, beneath thought.

And then—

"Sere! Get up." A hand touched her shoulder.

She turned to find Riven, his voice firm but his eyes—torn. He crouched beside her, offering his hand.

"Come on. Let's go. You need to breathe."

His fingers wrapped around hers—warm, grounding. She let him pull her up. The world blurred around her. Her legs felt foreign, the roar of the wind replaced by an eerie silence.

And then—

She was gone.

She didn't remember walking. Or flying. Or being taken away.

But now she was in her room—or rather, the Starlace Quarters, a private wing of the palace reserved for celestial heirs.

The walls glowed faintly with enchanted marble. Her robe had been changed. Her hands were clean. But her mind was in pieces.

She wasn't alone.

Riven sat near the arching window, fingers laced, watching the clouds beyond with unreadable eyes. Lyara paced, nervously twisting a strand of her hair around her finger.

The silence was heavy.

Then Lyara turned sharply, blurting the question that had been dancing on all their tongues:

"What was that, Sere?"

Serenya sat curled on the edge of her bed, knees drawn up, eyes unfocused.

"I… I don't know," she said quietly. "The lightning… I didn't mean for it to be that strong."

Lyara pressed a hand to her chest. "It looked like something from the Legends, not real magic."

Serenya swallowed, dizzy again. Her voice broke.

"How… how is Brother? Oh Gods. Where is he?!"

She started to rise in a panic, but Riven was already on his feet, stepping toward her.

"He's okay," he said, gently. "He has some bad bruises. He went unconscious from the shock, but the healers say he'll recover. You'll be able to see him by evening."

His voice was practiced, steady—like he'd been preparing to answer this the moment she woke.

"The Supreme Mother is with him," Riven added. "He'll be fine."

But Serenya wasn't.

Because somewhere deep inside her, where lightning still hummed beneath her skin, a single thought was blooming like a stormcloud.

That wasn't just magic.

That was something else.

Riven sat beside her on the edge of the bed, the gentle creak of his armor the only sound in the quiet chamber. A moment later, Lyara joined them, folding herself gracefully onto the velvet-cushioned bench near the foot of the bed.

"It's okay, Sere," Riven said softly. "We're here. You need rest now—more than anything. Don't think. Don't panic."

Lyara nodded, brushing her fingers through Serenya's tangled hair, her voice like balm.

"He's right. Just for a while—breathe. You did something incredible tonight. But right now… let us be your calm."

They always knew what to say. They always had.

There was a comfort to being with them that no other presence in the world offered. The three of them had been inseparable since childhood—raised like celestial threads in the same tapestry. Riven, son of the Commander of the Defenders, had grown up within the very walls of the palace. So had Lyara, whose father was one of the Queen's most trusted advisors. All three born in the same year—Lyara by a few moon-months the eldest, Serenya the youngest.

And yet, here they were. Still orbiting each other like stars too stubborn to fall apart.

"You should sleep, Sere," Lyara said gently, tucking a blanket up around her shoulders. "I'll stay with you."

"And I'll check on Kael," Riven added, rising to his feet. "I'll wake you the moment he's conscious."

Serenya didn't argue. She didn't need to.

She trusted them both more than anyone.

As Riven disappeared through the curved doorway, Lyara leaned back against the headboard beside her. The storm outside had faded into soft rain, tapping faintly against the arched glass windows of the Starlace Quarters. For the first time since the duel, Serenya's body allowed itself to loosen—just a little.

Sleep crept in slowly, like fog.

But it didn't stay.

Lyara's voice broke the quiet.

"What is that, Sere?"

Serenya blinked. Lyara had shifted, now peering down at her collarbone with a furrowed brow.

"What?" she mumbled groggily.

"That mark. Just under your collar."

Serenya sat up slightly, pulling the edge of her robe aside. There it was—faint but sharp against her skin.

A thin black line. Curved like a crescent, etched just beneath her collarbone. Small. Elegant. But foreign.

"It wasn't there before tonight, was it?" Lyara asked, voice careful now.

Serenya's brows knit together. "Not that I know."

"Maybe it's… a bruise," Lyara offered, though her tone said otherwise.

Serenya looked again, closely. With the same intense hazel eyes she had inherited from her mother—the same gaze that could read a lie before it was spoken.

It wasn't a bruise.

It wasn't swelling. It didn't ache. And it was too precise—too clean. As if drawn onto her by something… deliberate.

The mark pulsed faintly. Just once.

Like a whisper against her skin.

Serenya said nothing. But something in her chest stirred—something deeper than fear.

Something ancient.