Zura had prepared meticulously for the abduction of Lara. Every detail had been calculated, every risk measured. Their finest soldiers, warriors trained in the ruthless art of jungle warfare—were already hidden among the dense undergrowth of Mount Ourea, waiting in silence. The mountain itself had become their weapon, every shadow a blade, every whisper of wind a signal.
In the deep of the night, when darkness veiled over Calma, and the entire city, still draped in the remnants of its festival, unease lingered in Hevenfort and Mendel Manor. Banners once bright with celebration now hung limp, their colors muted by the heavy air of dread that had settled over the streets.
Inside Mendel Manor, silence reigned. The lively laughter that once filled its marble halls had vanished, replaced by the quiet weight of grief.
Ivy slept fitfully, her small hand still clutching the torn ribbon she had refused to let go—the only trace left from the abduction.
