The sanctuary did not celebrate.
There were no cheers, no relieved laughter, no songs of victory. When the kings departed, they left behind something far heavier than silence.
Expectation.
Amaya felt it pressing against her ribs as she stood at the cliff's edge, watching the last traces of dragonfire fade from the clouds. The sky looked normal again—too normal—like it was pretending nothing had happened.
Her fingers curled slowly.
This is what leadership feels like, she thought grimly. Standing still while the world waits for you to fail.
Behind her, the sanctuary stirred. Beasts moved through the mist—wolves, antlered spirits, scaled guardians—drawn by her presence, by the faint pulse of her power that never truly slept anymore.
She hated that part the most.
Not the fear. Not the danger.
But the way the world leaned toward her without asking.
"You're bleeding."
Calix's voice was quiet, close. She hadn't heard him approach.
