The world did not end that night.
That, Amaya would later realize, was the cruelest part.
Because dawn still came.
Not gently—never gently—but stubbornly, bleeding pale gold through the torn clouds as if the sky itself refused to admit how close it had come to breaking apart. The mountain stood scarred and cracked, ancient stone still smoking in places where lightning and dragonfire had kissed it raw.
Below the ridge, the forest lay stunned into silence.
No birds. No insects. No wind.
As though every living thing was holding its breath.
Amaya stood at the edge of the broken plateau, arms wrapped around herself, watching the horizon lighten. Her power had finally receded enough that her hands stopped trembling—but the hollow ache beneath her ribs remained, deep and constant.
Like something had been taken.
Or promised.
Behind her, Calix stirred.
