The sanctuary did not celebrate victory.
It never had.
The mountain breathed—slow, heavy exhales through stone veins and ancient roots—but there was no relief in it. Only waiting.
Amaya sat on the edge of the high balcony overlooking the inner valley, her knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Dawn had fully broken now, painting the sky in pale gold and bruised lavender, but the warmth didn't reach her.
She still felt the echo of the arena.
The way the power had listened.
The way it had recognized her when she stopped fighting it.
That terrified her more than losing control ever had.
Because it meant the power wasn't foreign.
It was hers.
And it was patient.
Behind her, soft footsteps approached—measured, familiar.
Calix stopped a respectful distance away.
"You should be resting," he said.
"So should you."
He snorted quietly. "Kings don't get rest. They get intervals."
