The sky never cleared.
Dawn should have risen by now, banishing the ash. Instead the horizon lay shrouded in gray, neither night nor day, as though the world itself refused to move forward. The fire had not only gutted the clearing — it had frozen time.
Aria sat where she had collapsed, Kael's shallow breath beneath her palm, the ground around her scorched black in a wide circle. Her body still trembled. Veins glowed faintly beneath her skin like cooling embers, pulsing when the survivors raised their voices, when the wolves prowled, when the mark stirred.
The survivors had not settled. They had split.
On one side, the worshippers. Ash-streaked, eyes wild with reverence, they gathered in ragged knots, murmuring hymns to her. Some had torn their own clothing, smearing ash across their skin as though to mimic her. One woman braided her hair with blackened feathers, whispering that fire had crowned her queen.
