Creese

Three days before the wedding, Seraphina Vale thought she was living a fairytale.

Julian’s penthouse smelled like citrus and cedarwood, the kind of scent you could bottle and name Success. He stood by the kitchen island in sweatpants and no shirt, hair still damp from the gym, smiling at her like she was the prize he never had to chase.

“You’re staring,” he teased.

Sera smirked over her coffee. “I’m just trying to remember why I said yes.”

Julian crossed the room in three long strides, wrapped an arm around her waist, and kissed her like a man who always got what he wanted. “Because I’m devastatingly handsome and your mother loves me.”

“Mm, two things I may soon regret.”

She laughed, but it caught somewhere in her chest.

Everything about her life looked perfect from the outside—magazine-worthy engagement, New York socialite status, a fiancé with flawless teeth and a startup about to go public. Her wedding hashtag had trended for two days straight.

But something in Julian had changed in the last few months. He was still charming, still doted on her in public, still gave her everything she asked for.

Everything except... presence.

His kisses landed like rehearsed lines. His touches didn’t linger.

And worst of all—he was always texting.

Constantly. Smiling at his phone when he thought she wasn’t looking. Swiping it away too fast when she was.

Sera asked once, lightly, “Who’s got you so entertained?”

Julian had smiled and said, “Work, babe. You know how it is.”

And she did. She wanted to believe him. She needed to.

Because the alternative was a truth too ugly to say out loud.


---

That afternoon, she met Madeline for dress fittings.

Madeline had been her best friend since prep school—the kind of friend who held your hair back while you puked and swore she’d take your secrets to the grave. She was tall, magnetic, unapologetically wild. If Sera was the grace, Madeline was the chaos.

“You’re glowing,” Madeline said, adjusting the bust of her lavender bridesmaid dress in the mirror. “You’re going to ruin every woman’s self-esteem on Saturday.”

Sera looked at herself. The silk gown shimmered like a dream. But all she could see was a girl pretending not to notice how fast her world was unraveling.

Madeline leaned in, voice low and teasing. “You sure you’re ready for monogamy? One man for the rest of your life? No more flirty brunch waiters or sultry European getaways?”

Sera raised an eyebrow. “Who said anything about giving up flirty brunch waiters?”

They both laughed, but Sera caught the flicker in Madeline’s eyes. A flash of guilt? Or just her own imagination turning shadows into monsters?

She told herself not to be paranoid. She had no reason to be.

Madeline had been there through everything—every broken heart, every public failure, every bottle of rosé drunk at 2 a.m. in their twenties while crying over boys who didn’t deserve them.

Julian was hers. Madeline was her best friend.

What could possibly go wrong?


---

Later that night, lying in bed with Julian’s arm thrown over her waist like a lazy anchor, Seraphina stared at the ceiling and whispered, “You still love me, right?”

Julian didn’t move. “Of course.”

“No hesitation?”

He chuckled, half-asleep. “You’re just having wedding nerves, babe. It’s normal.”

She wanted to ask about the texts. About the long nights at the office. About why he kept turning away from her in bed.

Instead, she closed her eyes.

And dreamed of waves crashing and silk burning.

Seraphina Vale

It wasn't rain that fell from the bruised heavens, but ash—fine, crimson-tinged flecks drifting like the remnants of a pyre long forgotten. The war drums had stopped. The horns had gone silent. Yet the air trembled as if it too braced for what was to come.

Seraphina stood at the gates, armor lacquered black with streaks of deep red veining the steel, echoing the burning fury carved into her bones. She bore no crown, yet none doubted her rule. She had become the storm they feared. Her hair was braided with obsidian beads and threads of flame-spun silk, swaying in rhythm with the howling wind.

Behind her, Ravenhold stood fractured but not fallen. Soldiers lined the walls with hollow eyes and bloodied armor, watching their general – no, their queen – walk the path none dared tread.

Mira rode up beside her, clad in sleek steel and shadow. "The scouts report movements beyond the Vale," she said. "Not just beasts. Something older. They call it the Unmaking."

Seraphina didn't blink. "Good. Let it come."

Mira hesitated, then held out a blade wrapped in black velvet. "Your mother's sword. We reforged it. The flame still answers it."

It pulsed in her palm like a heartbeat.

The steel was etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the dark, as though whispering ancient vows. It was heavier than she remembered, but somehow it belonged.

"Then let it begin," she whispered, eyes turning toward the East where the sky cracked with red lightning.

Valen knelt at the base of a shattered altar in the heart of the Forgotten Vale. The creature before him took no shape he recognized—it was all shadow and memory, wearing faces stolen from his past: his brother, his mother, even Seraphina.

"You come seeking absolution," it rasped.

Valen lifted his eyes. "No. Power."

He hesitated. Then removed the last token from his belt—a small silver pendant. Seraphina's. The one he had once sworn never to part with.

And so did he, as the creature sank its essence into his veins, rewriting the runes carved by fate itself.

He was not Valen anymore. He was a reckoning.

**Back at Ravenhold – Seraphina's POV**

The first tear in the sky opened at twilight.

A rift of red and gold, swirling like the eye of some forgotten god, pulsed above the horizon. From it poured creatures made not of flesh but of grief, of rage, of all the broken promises ever whispered on battlefields.

Her blade lit the path, carving a war-song through the dark. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She moved like vengeance made flesh.

And just when the tide began to overwhelm them—

A flare of black and gold split the battlefield.

The earth split under his boots. The sky recognized him and wept fire. He turned the tide not with a sword, but with sheer presence, every step unraveling the enemy like pages ripped from a prophecy that dared defy him.

But the bond they had severed didn't need repair to be felt again. They were no longer bound by magic.

Crimson Reckoning