The world whispered hope.
Mary woke on a bed of moss in the valley, golden rays of dawn dancing across her eyelids. The ravaged mountain above stood silent, its runes faded to warmth. Every breath tasted of dawnlight, not dusk.
Loosie knelt beside her, a bowl of steaming broth in hand. "Morning, Mom."
Mary smiled faintly. "You're awake already?"
"Of course." She handed Mary the bowl. "They said you might starve if I didn't feed you."
Mary chuckled—a soft sound cracked by exhaustion. "Rebellious child."
Loosie grinned.
Lela appeared then, surveying the valley. The camps of the Crimson Alliance glowed with preparation; swords polished, wards humming in the air.
"What's the day look like?" Mary asked, voice brittle with wear.
Lela crossed her arms. "Diplomacy. Peace. Wards. Repairs. You sealed a rift, yes—but the world is fragile. The races need more than defense. They need something to build towards."
Mary nodded. She glanced at the violet Codex resting against her hip. Its runes pulsed softly—written, sealed, complete.
"But I have to see Cethan," she added. "He risked… everything."
"You will," Lela assured.
The day moved through ceremony.
First came the Remembrance—a quiet procession to the altar atop Mount Thesrel. Each race placed mementos: a silver fang, a strand of wolf fur, a scroll from the last warlock. Mary led them, hooded, carrying the violet tome but keeping its pages closed.
Loosie and Lela flanked her, adding their own remembrances.
They left the commemorative tokens on the altar. Mary placed the codex atop them.
Then came the Oath—the Afterlight Covenant. Representatives from vampires, werekin, arcanists, even humans and dwarves gathered before the altar. They spoke oaths to protect the balance, maintain the seals, and teach the next generation to remember—but not fear.
As each voice rose, the valley thrummed. Light wove across the stone altar, leylines awakened beneath the ground. The codex glowed, imbued with every vow.
When the last oath ended, a beam of sunrise pierced the altar. The valley erupted in applause. Mary closed her eyes, feeling warmth in her bones—like the world taking a first breath.
Afterward, they returned to the Alliance camp.
Mary found Cethan by the warlock's tent, staring at a simple rune carved into the pale earth—his name, bound by silver glyphs.
He looked up, relief and sorrow in his gaze. They embraced quietly.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For believing I could be more than the Rift's conduit."
Mary squeezed him. "You're proof that the veil can heal."
Loosie joined them. "Captain Riftborn," she teased.
Cethan smiled softly. "I'll take it."
While the world celebrated, Mary worked.
She met with race leaders: vampire elders who offered centuries of knowledge; guildmasters who pledged trade routes; human scholars who agreed to archive the Covenant; even dwarvish runesmiths who offered stone and metal to reinforce seals across mountain passes.
She walked between tents and banners — always with the Codex at her side.
Everywhere she went, people looked at her with gratitude or awe. Some called her Savior. She smiled back, knowing she was just a writer whose final page rippled outward.
That evening, she stood alone at the edge of the ward circle—ward fires casting soft arcs of light into gathering dark.
Lela joined her—bow drawn tight across the string of her mind.
"You planning to disappear again?" Lela asked gently.
Mary looked at the star-quiet sky.
"I thought I would," she said. "But… I think my story is here now."
Lela smiled, unhooking her bow. "Good."
They remained silent until Loosie appeared.
She handed Mary a small scroll—a map drawn by five scribes from different races, marked with locations of remaining runic fractures, suggested repair sites, and new Covenant outposts.
"I thought… we'd need it soon," Loosie said.
Mary nodded. "This is only the beginning."
Later that night, after the camp had quieted and only ward fires flickered, Mary returned to the altar, the violet codex in her arms.
The moonlight bathed the stone.
She opened the book.
All pages were filled—no blank space, no untouched rune.
She laid the pages flat on the altar, then pressed her hand across them.
"May this story always remind us: endings forge beginnings."
The Codex pulsed once, once only.
Then it snapped shut.
Mary closed her eyes, breathing the world's sleep.
In dreams, she returned to the Scriptorium.
Empty chairs. Broken runes. Walls scarred by rewriting.
But the Object—the Author's chair—was cracked open, waiting.
Mary reached and pressed her hand on its surface.
A whisper came—soft, grateful.
"Thank you."
Then the dream faded.
The next morning brought a surprise.
From the east came a rider—a lone figure on a pale horse, armor glinting like starlight.
They dismounted before Mary, handing her a letter sealed with wax the color of morning sky.
It read:
To the Author of the Afterlight,
I have watched your pen. I have seen your pages turned. You have earned the right to know: your world is your own.
But others watch still.
A messenger comes.
Meet me at the Crossroads of Five Ways, under the blood moon.
– A Friend
Mary folded the letter slowly.
She tucked it into her cloak.
Loosie and Lela watched from behind.
Mary said softly: "The final sequel begins."