The dawn that broke over the Nightborn village was unlike any Aria had seen before. Crimson light poured over jagged peaks, igniting the runed stone buildings in a fiery glow. It felt as though the land itself was waking to something ancient—something long dormant now stirred by her presence.
Aria stood barefoot in the central ritual circle, her skin still marked with blood and ash, her breath slow and even. Around her, the Nightborn wolves had gathered, silent and watchful, their inked bodies glowing faintly in the morning light.
Fenrik approached, his ceremonial cloak sweeping behind him, a bone-tipped staff in his hand. The same man who had once doubted her now bowed his head in solemn respect.
"You are of the fire, but not its slave," he said. "You are worthy."
Aria inclined her head, her voice hoarse from the trial. "Then you'll stand with us?"
