Epilogue: The Ghostlight Remains

The city didn’t look different. It never does. Neon still bled across concrete like bruises too old to heal. The scent of wet copper, ozone, and desperation clung to the streets like a hymn no one remembered how to sing.

I walked.

Not toward anything. Not away. Just forward.

The rooftops blurred behind me. The circle was fading already. Maybe someone would find it. Maybe no one would. But the weight of what I left behind—the blade, the echo, the fear—didn’t cling like it used to.

That was new.

They say ghosts linger because something binds them. Grief. Rage. Regret. I’d carried all three like old friends. Called them names like armor. Now they were quieter. Still there, but watching instead of steering.

Echo would want to talk. She always did. Wrap things in logic and metaphor. I loved that about her. But some things don’t need to be dissected. Some truths only make sense when you let them rest in the dark and grow strange and beautiful.

What happened on that rooftop wasn’t an ending. It wasn’t even justice. It was a choice. The choice to stop running. The choice to let Isilme live.

I don’t know what that means yet. I’m not sure I want to. But I know this: I’m not afraid of the mirror anymore. I can look into my own eyes and not flinch.

I am not Selvetarm’s.

I am not the weapon.

I am not the Dullahan.

I am Valkyrie.

And the ghostlight remains.

Not to haunt.

To guide.