The night air trembled.
Sorin stood at the edge of the ridge, breath shallow, eyes fixed on the citadel below. The city's lights glimmered faintly, like embers under a veil of mist.
The Silence Path clung to him, not in complete stillness, but in the tense hush before the sky decides to break. He felt an approaching fracture in the world.
The ground beneath his boots pulsed faintly, growing stronger. Sorin's hands curled unconsciously, nails pressing into his palms. Danger didn't always roar; sometimes it whispered until it became unbearable.
Toven stood a few paces ahead, gaze fixed on the citadel's highest spire. Zira's voice crackled softly over the whisper-link, urgent yet controlled.
"Twenty-five breaths," she said. "That's all we have. Hold your ground until the mark."
Sorin counted silently: One. Two. Three… The world felt stretched thin, like a drumskin pulled too tight.
By seven breaths, the mist thickened, curling upward as if searching. At twelve, a low hum resonated deep in his ribs.
At sixteen, light flickered within the citadel, sharper than any lantern. By twenty-three, Sorin's hearing sharpened unnaturally, every distant sound magnified: the scrape of stone, the flutter of a bird's wings, the faint inhale of Toven beside him.
Twenty-five.
The world tore.
At first, it wasn't a sound but a pressure wave, a sudden absence of air that slammed into Sorin's chest, ripping the breath from his lungs.
Then the light arrived—a searing, molten bloom devouring the citadel's heart, erupting outward. Shards of stone, wood, and fire shot into the night like a thousand angry stars.
The roar followed a heartbeat later, deafening and bone-cracking, swallowing everything. Sorin's knees buckled.
The Silence Path wavered, reality stuttering between noise and nothing, as though the explosion existed in two worlds simultaneously. Flames clawed at the sky; the spire crumpled inward, folding like paper.
The air stank of scorched metal and burning oil, thick enough to choke. Sorin's vision blurred, but his other senses surged: taste of ash, feel of debris cutting the wind.
Amid the chaos, he sensed life within the citadel—some snuffed instantly, others flickering weakly. And through it, he felt something else: a note, faint and pure, threading through the ruin, calling to the Silence Path within him.
Zira's voice broke through, strained: "Sorin, report! What do you see?"
The instinct to speak overrode thought. "It's not… over." His voice sounded strange, echoing in a way that did not belong.
From the flames, figures emerged—not fleeing survivors, but deliberate silhouettes, moving with slow, measured steps. Their presence pressed against Sorin's mind, probing the edges of his silence.
Toven muttered, low and tense: "Those aren't ours."
The figures paused at the edge of the wreckage, watching the ridge as if aware of every heartbeat.
The note in Sorin's mind swelled, bringing with it a truth he wished he could ignore: the explosion was not the end. It was only the beginning.
Even in this moment of devastation, Sorin felt warmth stir within the circle of allies. His eyes met Lys's across the ridge; unspoken understanding and growing affection bloomed in the shared gaze.
Dren's glance toward another carried quiet recognition, a bond strengthened not just by survival but by care and shared trust.
Even amidst ash and fire, love was threading itself gently, persistently through the chaos, anchoring them in a fleeting, fragile hope that survived the storm.