The wind had stilled. The Vale of Murmur did not repeat itself. No whispers. No voices. Only the low noise of breath — theirs, alive and ragged. The ground burned no more, though it didn't feel safe. With a sigh, Lucian sheathed his cracked blade. "We lived. That's something."
His legs were shaking as Kael sat on a harsh rock. "Barely. What was that light?"
Serakha didn't respond immediately. She was standing at the center of the stone ring, glimmer of her glowing fingers fading. The warmth had faded. What was left was cold — not in the way of winter, but in the way of absence.
"I was the one," she said at last. "Or what I once was. The piece I locked away."
Lucian walked closer. "You sealed the crack. Shut the lock down. That's good, right?"
Serakha nodded slowly, but her gaze was distant. "It's not over. That crack wasn't the end of it. It was only a passage. A throat."
Kael looked up. "A throat?"
