The air cracked.
It wasn't the wind or fire or even the press of magic between locked blades and clawed strikes. It was deeper, older—a shiver in the marrow of the world.
Yara staggered backwards, breath burning her throat, the copper tang of blood on her tongue. Her daggers dripped red as she stared down Aira, chest heaving. Smoke rose in plumes behind her, swallowing the sky in flickers of orange and black.
Around them, the snowy mountains were ablaze. Trees split with dry, groaning sounds as flames devoured them. Shadows of dragons wheeled between the ridges above, their roars swallowed by the wind. The air stank of charred fur, hot metal, magic, and ash. Bodies littered the slope, some still twitching. Others froze mid-crawl, crimson staining the snow beneath their limbs.
Aira's laugh broke through the chaos, brittle and sharp. She held the crystal aloft now, fingers trembling—but not from fear.
From power.
