As the golden sword came to a halt in the first floor of the Tower of Truth, Lenavira's feet gently touched the ancient stone ground. Her arms tightened protectively around Max's charred, barely-held-together body.
Her golden hair, blown wild by the wind, slowly settled as silence fell around her. She stood there, eyes scanning the grand entrance of the floor, her breath shallow, her heart pounding—not from the speed, but from the helplessness clawing at her chest.
She didn't move. She didn't speak. She simply waited. Waited for something—anything—to happen. For the tower to respond, for a light to appear, for some ancient power to stir and reach out to Max.
At the same time, gasps filled the air behind her.
"Look, she arrived on a sword... carrying someone... Who is dead?" a voice whispered, stunned.
