The wind carried the scent of burnt sugar and damp parchment, remnants of the Inkblight’s decaying forest clinging to Virellia’s sleeves. She flexed her fingers, still aching from the phantom heat of the Sea of Shattered Glass. Beside her, Riven—ever the brooding stormcloud—kicked a pebble down the road, his scowl deeper than usual.

  "You’re staring," he muttered.

  "At your charming personality," Virellia shot back, flicking a stray ember from her hair. "Or lack thereof."

  Riven’s lips twitched, the closest he ever came to a smile. "Should’ve left you with the pirate."

  "Elira’s smarter than you. She’d never walk into a town called Lanternrest without asking why the lanterns never go out."

  Riven adjusted the hilt of his sword, its pommel wrapped in fraying red thread—a habit when he was nervous. "You’re the one who insisted we come."

  Virellia didn’t answer. The truth sat heavy in her throat: she’d dreamed of this place. Flames shaped like hands, lanterns with no one to carry them. And Sorin’s name, whispered by a voice that wasn’t hers.

  The road sloped downward, revealing Lanternrest nestled in the valley below. Even from a distance, the glow was unnatural—not the warm gold of firelight, but the eerie blue of drowned stars. Every window, every doorstep, held a lantern. Some swayed gently in the breeze, their glass etched with names Virellia couldn’t read. Others pulsed faintly, like slow, sleeping hearts.

  Riven stiffened. "This reeks of Sanctum tricks."

  "Or worse," Virellia murmured.

  A child’s laughter rang out, sudden and bright. A girl skipped past them, her lantern swinging—inside, a tiny figure danced, a memory made solid. The girl grinned, gap-toothed. "You’re new! Doma’ll like you."

  Riven’s hand hovered near his dagger. "Who’s Doma?"

  "The Lantern Maker," the girl said, as if it were obvious. "He knows all the might-have-beens."

  Then she was gone, vanishing into the maze of glowing streets.

  Virellia exhaled. "Well. That wasn’t ominous at all."

  Riven’s jaw tightened. "We find this Doma, get answers, leave."

  "We? Since when do you volunteer for anything?"

  "Since I promised Aeris I’d keep you from setting anything on fire."

  Virellia rolled her eyes, but her chest tightened at the mention of her sister. Aeris, who trusted Riven more than she’d ever trust me.

  The town swallowed them whole.

  Doma’s workshop was a cave of glass and ghosts.

  Lanterns hung from the ceiling, their light casting prismatic shadows across the walls. Some were empty. Others held flickering scenes—a woman laughing, a soldier falling, a child holding a crown too big for their hands.

  At the center of it all, Doma sat cross-legged on a stool, his fingers weaving copper wire around a half-formed lantern. He was ancient, his skin like cracked porcelain, his eyes milky with cataracts—yet his hands moved with the precision of a surgeon.

  "Ah," he said, without looking up. "The fire-dancer and the knight who isn’t one anymore."

  Riven’s fingers twitched toward his sword. "You know us."

  "I know the lanterns you could have carried." Doma held up a finished lantern—inside, a figure in silver robes (Virellia’s face, but older, fiercer) stood atop a burning palace. "Yours is particularly bright."

  Virellia’s breath caught. "That’s not my future."

  "Isn’t it?" Doma tilted the lantern. The figure turned to ash, then reformed—this time, weeping over a body in Hollow King’s armor.

  Riven stepped between them. "Enough games."

  Doma chuckled. "You’d prefer yours, then?" He reached for another lantern—this one showed Riven kneeling in the Broken Sanctum, his sword plunged into the earth, a crown of shadows at his feet.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Riven recoiled. "I don’t want it."

  "Of course not." Doma set it aside. "You’ve lost enough pasts already."

  A beat of silence. Virellia forced herself to speak. "Why did we dream of this place?"

  Doma’s gaze slid to a lantern in the corner—unlit, gathering dust. "Because he did."

  The lantern flared to life. Inside, Sorin’s silhouette burned gold, his scars branching like cracks in glass.

  Riven’s voice was rough. "That’s impossible. He’s never been here."

  Doma smiled. "Not yet."

  Night deepened. The lanterns glowed brighter, their light humming like a lullaby.

  Virellia found Riven outside, staring at the horizon where the Broken Sanctum’s silhouette cut into the sky. She handed him a stolen bottle of wine. "Drink. You look like you’re about to stab something."

  He took a swig. "Wouldn’t help."

  "Never does." She sat beside him, the cobblestones cold beneath her palms. "I used to pray," she said abruptly, "that Sorin would never come back."

  Riven stilled.

  "I dreamed of him before any of this. A king in flames, begging for someone to remember. I thought if he stayed gone, the fire wouldn’t spread." She laughed bitterly. "Stupid."

  Riven’s thumb traced the rim of the bottle. "We don’t get to choose who comes back."

  A gust of wind. The lanterns shuddered, their light pooling at their feet like liquid.

  Then—

  A sound like shattering glass.

  They sprinted back to the workshop.

  Doma was on the floor, his body translucent—turning to glass. His fingers clutched a broken lantern, its light spilling across the floor in jagged streaks.

  Virellia dropped to her knees. "What happened?!"

  Doma’s voice was a whisper, his lips cracking like overfired clay. "He’s coming."

  The last lantern in the room—Sorin’s—exploded.

  Light swallowed the world.

  When it faded, Doma was gone. Only his final words lingered, echoing through the empty workshop:

  "Nothing lasts. Not even kings."

  The workshop was too quiet.

  Virellia’s pulse roared in her ears as she stared at the space where Doma had been. Only a glass statue remained, its face frozen in a silent scream. She reached out, then yanked her hand back—the surface was searing hot.

  Riven swore under his breath. "This is Sanctum work."

  "No." Virellia’s voice was hollow. "The Sanctum burns. This is something older."

  A flicker of movement caught her eye. One lantern, untouched by the chaos, swung gently from the ceiling. Inside, the flame burned brighter as she approached, reacting to her presence. The glass was etched with a single name:

  SORIN.

  Riven’s shadow loomed over her shoulder. "Don’t touch it."

  She almost listened. But the flame inside twisted, forming a shape—a child’s hand, pressed against the glass. A whisper seeped through:

  "You were supposed to remind him."

  Her fingers closed around the lantern.

  The world tore open.

  Fire.

  Not her own—this was gold, molten, wrong. It dripped from the sky like rain, eating through the streets of Lumin Hollow.

  At the center stood Sorin, his scars splitting open, light pouring out. Not the Hollow King. Something worse.

  And kneeling before him—

  Aeris.

  Her sister’s dagger was plunged into her own chest, her lips moving soundlessly. A plea or a curse, Virellia couldn’t tell.

  Then the scene shifted.

  A silver-haired woman (Liraeth?) cradling a sobbing child (Sorin, younger), her voice breaking: "You were never meant to wake up."

  The lantern shattered in Virellia’s grip.

  She gasped, back in the workshop, her palms bleeding. Riven hauled her upright, his grip bruising. "What did you see?"

  She couldn’t speak. The words were ashes in her throat.

  A noise outside—footsteps. Too light to be human.

  Riven drew his sword. "We’re leaving. Now."

  The streets of Lanternrest were no longer empty.

  Figures moved in the shadows, their bodies flickering like poorly remembered dreams. Some carried lanterns. Others were lanterns, their faces hollow, their glass skin pulsing with stolen light.

  One turned its head too far, cracking its neck. "He’s coming," it echoed.

  Virellia’s fire surged instinctively, but the flames sputtered out—the air was too thick with the scent of burnt sugar and ozone, choking her magic.

  Riven cut down a reaching hand, its fingers shattering like crystal. "Run!"

  They sprinted toward the town’s edge, the lanterns swinging wildly, their light stitching the shadows into a labyrinth. A child’s laughter echoed—the same girl from before, her lantern now dark.

  "You shouldn’t have looked," she singsonged.

  Riven pivoted, slamming his shoulder into a door. It gave way to an alley, then a dead end.

  And there, waiting—

  A figure in a tattered Sanctum cloak, its face hidden beneath a mask of stained glass.

  Riven’s sword didn’t waver. "Move."

  The figure tilted its head. Its voice was Doma’s. "You already know you can’t kill me, Riven. You’ve tried."

  Virellia’s breath hitched. Future. Past. Might-have-been. The pieces clicked.

  This wasn’t a person.

  It was a memory.

  The glass-masked figure reached up, slowly, and removed its face.

  Underneath was Riven.

  Older. Weary. Eyes like shattered windows.

  "You always forget," the other Riven said. "That’s the problem."

  The real Riven staggered back. "No—"

  "You let the Hollow King fall. You let the Hounds in. And when the time comes, you’ll hesitate again." The figure stepped closer, its edges blurring. "Unless you remember what you promised her."

  Virellia didn’t understand. But Riven—Riven looked like he’d been stabbed.

  "Lira," he whispered.

  The figure smiled. Then it dissolved, leaving only a lantern at their feet. Inside, a silver-haired woman (Aeris? No—younger, fiercer) clasped hands with a knight (Riven, but softer). A whispered vow:

  "Nothing lasts. Not even us."

  The lantern went dark.

  Silence.

  Then—

  A howl in the distance. Not a Hound. Something worse.

  Riven exhaled sharply. "We need to find the others."

  Virellia didn’t argue.

  As they fled Lanternrest, the lanterns flickered out one by one, their light dying with Doma’s final warning still ringing in the air:

  He’s coming.