The night was alive with smoke and stars.
From the rooftop of the southern towers, Aurora watched the ruins of the demon kingdom stretch into the distance like an ocean of black stone. The winds carried the metallic scent of burnt steel and sulfur from the forges below, mingling with the faint sweetness of demonfire still burning in the horizon.
The stars above were pale embers—cold and ancient—casting no warmth, only reminder.
The Heir stood beside her, silent, her horns reflecting faint starlight. The southern winds tangled her dark hair, and the faint shimmer of power traced along her skin, faint as breath.
She was small against the vastness of the night, but Aurora could feel the weight of destiny pressing on her shoulders.
They had said little since the pact below. Now, words came slowly, as if the air itself demanded reverence.
