The first light of dawn bled slowly across the mountains, washing away the darkness that had strangled the land during the eclipse. The battlefield outside Hollow Fang Keep was eerily quiet, save for the crackle of smoldering debris and the soft cries of the wounded being tended to.
Aria sat on the ruined steps of the obsidian spire, her body draped in a thick cloak Tobias had wrapped around her when she collapsed. The heat of the Flameborn crown still echoed in her bones, a quiet thrum of magic under her skin—but it was no longer a searing blaze. It was… dormant. Humming.
Balanced.
She had shattered the crown. But the Flameborn power hadn't left her.
It had chosen to stay.
Dorian knelt beside her, silent but watchful. His wounds were bandaged now—long claw marks across his side, a cracked rib, and a burn that ran from shoulder to hip. Yet he hadn't left her side once.
"You should rest," Aria said softly, her voice hoarse.
