Aurora looked around, breath thin and trembling, as she scanned the whole of the capital—
or what once was the capital—for Henry, for Loki, for any thread of familiar mana that could anchor her shaking heartbeat. The wind was thick with smoke and dust, carrying the bitter scent of burned stone and the faint metallic tang of blood.
Her fingers twitched with each new spell she cast, pale light dancing between her palms, but each magic pulse returned the same terrible silence. Nothing. No footprints. No echoes. No remnants.
Her magic helped nothing. Gave nothing.
Her throat constricted. A bit of panic lurked in her eyes like a storm barely held at bay. Even her breathing felt uneven, catching on invisible thorns lodged inside her chest.
She turned toward Merlin.
Her master.
Her last sanctuary of certainty.
"…Master," she whispered, voice on the verge of cracking, "please. You search. Please."
