Smoke still lingered in the air, veiling the battlefield in an eerie twilight even as dawn threatened the horizon. The scent of scorched earth and blood hung thick, and silence stretched like a taut string across the field. Wolves limped among the wounded. Others knelt beside the dead. The light of the twin moons faded, replaced by the haunting memory of the battle that had just shaken the world.
Aria stood at the center of it all.
The charred feather that had once been Mara's talisman disintegrated between her fingers, the last residue of the ancient curse Mara had tried to wield against her. Aria released it, letting the wind scatter its ashes like dust. The moment felt suspended in time—between what had been and what was about to begin.
She closed her eyes. Her heartbeat echoed not just in her chest but through the threads of spirit magic pulsing beneath her skin. And when she opened them again, silver fire burned in her irises.
