The silence that followed the last test of Ashvara was not peace.
It was fear.
Envoys returned to their kingdoms with trembling hands and eyes that darted at shadows. In the grand palace of Raventhal, the Queen of Caranor locked herself in her chamber, muttering of a weapon that could erase mountains. Velgrad's high chancellor resigned, citing "divine punishment."
Even Navaleon's allies grew cautious. Whispers wound through their halls:
"Has the Lord of Light become a Warden of War?"
Sharath, meanwhile, sat in the Tower of Accord, flanked by architects and advisors. Maps of the continent lay before him — not marked for conquest, but for containment.
"Too many eyes now turn to us not with respect, but dread," Elina warned, her tone half-political, half-personal. "Fear bends knees, but never hearts."
Sharath didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on a single red ink blot: the burned Brela village. He knew what had to come next.
But could a man who had just invented death from a distance become the voice of unity?