Weeks later, memory no longer comes in fragments.

It crashes.

The dreams stopped being dreams. Wings ache where they never existed. Your muscles remember movements your mind is still catching up to. The past isn’t whispering anymore—it’s demanding.

Shayera doesn’t allow you time to adjust.

The training is brutal. Relentless. She drives you across stone courtyards and open skies, correcting every hesitation, every instinct that still belongs to a man instead of a warrior. When you fall, she doesn’t soften. When you bleed, she doesn’t slow. Her eyes burn with something ancient—grief sharpened into purpose.

Because Hath-Set has returned.

The priest who murdered you both in your first life. The one who learned how to follow your souls through time. The reason love has never been allowed to stay gentle.

When your arm falters, she knocks you down without apology, wings flaring as she stands over you, breath steady where yours isn’t.

“Again,” Shayera snaps. “He won’t hesitate. Neither can you.”

Later—much later—when exhaustion has stripped you bare and the sky has turned gold, she finally approaches. The armor rests in her hands like a relic, like judgment. The mace hums faintly, recognizing you.

She fits the gear onto you herself, careful now, reverent.

“This time,” Shayera says quietly, resting her forehead against yours, “we end it.”

The weight settles. The memories align.

Hawkman rises.

And Hawkwoman stands ready beside him.