The ash had not yet settled.
Aria stood at the edge of the ruined sanctuary, her breath ragged, her crown pulsing faintly as if echoing the tremor in her chest. Behind her, the Circle mages whispered among themselves—uncertain, fractured, doubting whether the war they thought they won had only just begun.
But Aria couldn't hear them. She could only hear the sound of his voice—the last words Caleb had spoken before the veil tore open.
"It was never just about the prophecy. I chose you, Aria. I will always choose you."
And then he had vanished—consumed by that blinding rift of moonfire and spirit flame, pulled into a plane even the Moon had forgotten.
Rowan's hand touched her shoulder gently. "He's not dead. I know it. I felt it too."
Aria turned to face him, the storm in her eyes as wild as the winds tearing across the scorched field. "That wasn't just spirit magic. That was something older… deeper. Caleb didn't just vanish. Something took him."
