The dawn after the collapse brought a silence that was both peaceful and terrifying.
They stood atop a hill overlooking the bay where the last of Rohzivaan's cursed fleet had vanished into the mist. The sea was calm now, the shadows beneath it no longer writhing with void creatures. In the absence of their master, the unnatural army had fallen like marionettes with cut strings.
But victory did not feel as sweet as the songs might one day claim.
Ahcehera leaned against a cracked pillar at the cliff's edge, eyes cast toward the horizon. The celestial flame still pulsed in her chest, but its beat was quieter now, softer—less like a war drum, more like a heartbeat. For the first time since she'd awakened to her power, she felt something close to peace.
Kairen approached, his cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders despite the morning sun. "The southern villages have sent word," he said quietly. "They're rebuilding. They say they'll follow whoever lights the first beacon."
