The mountain slept uneasily.
Even after the Sovereign's departure, the stone walls continued to thrum with residual power, as if the earth itself were struggling to decide whether to accept what had changed—or reject it violently.
Amaya stood near the mouth of the tunnel, staring out at the pale dawn filtering through broken stone. Mist clung to the mountainside, soft and deceptive, hiding the scars left behind by dragonfire and divine wrath.
She wrapped her arms around herself.
For the first time since awakening, no one was pulling at her soul.
No roar calling her name.
No fire coiling in her veins.
No voice whispering claim.
The silence was… terrifying.
Calix watched her from a few steps away.
He hadn't shifted back fully. White stripes still glowed faintly along his arms and neck, his senses stretched thin, alert to threats that hadn't arrived yet—but would.
They always did.
"She's wrong," he said suddenly, breaking the quiet.
