The wyrm dove.
Not glided.
Not descended.
Dove.
A spiraling, controlled plummet straight down the cliffside, talons scraping the stone for extra momentum. The air turned into needles; the world became a blur of sand and jagged stone.
Nysha clamped her hand on the saddle, knuckles pale.
Ashwing screamed like a traumatized baby lizard.
Kherael muttered prayers to a god no one had worshiped in three eras.
Lindarion didn't move.
His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon—on the place the Celestial's final whisper had pointed him toward.
A faint, dim glow.
Not visible to mortal eyes.
Not real light at all.
A gravitational pull in the mana flow, like a second heartbeat echoing beneath the desert.
The Devourer's half-sleeping ruin.
The second heart.
The wyrm hit the desert floor with a jarring slam, sand exploding outward from the impact. In one smooth motion, it coiled its body around them to shield against the whipping winds.
Nysha exhaled sharply. "—never—doing—that—again."
