Echoes of the Forgotten
The victory tasted like ash.
Aria stood at the edge of the Obsidian Vale, staring at the fissure where Cyrus had vanished. The air still crackled with residual energy, the ground scarred by the Dark One's wrath. Alexander knelt nearby, scrubbing blackened blood from his dagger with snow. His movements were mechanical, his eyes distant.
"He's gone," Marisol said, though the words lacked conviction. She pressed a hand to the altar, her moonstone pendant dim. "For now."
Aria flexed her fingers, the Flame's glow weaker than before. "What happens when he returns?"
The elder didn't answer.
---
The pack's return to the compound was met with hollow cheers. Warriors clasped forearms, children clung to mothers, but the relief was brittle. Grief lingered in the smoke-heavy air, in the pyres still smoldering at the forest's edge.
