Dawn came slowly.
It was the first real morning the land had known in years—no false suns conjured by wards, no layered veils of sky. Just light, pale and gold, cutting across the hills in thin sheets. It touched the broken stones of the sanctum's remains, warmed the cracks of a world beginning to breathe again.
Caliste stood at the edge of a bluff overlooking the valley.
His cloak hung still. The wind was soft.
Ash still floated through the air in thin ribbons, trailing from the direction of the fallen sanctum like memory refusing to settle. The earth there had cracked into spirals, stone rings that glowed faintly as if reluctant to let go of the power they'd once held.
He watched the light spread—slow, careful, almost afraid of what it might reveal.
