Aria stood at the center of the obsidian hall, her flame crown pulsing softly like a heartbeat. Around her, the Nightborn elders formed a circle of shadow and silence. Their faces, marked by soot and age, were unreadable—but their energy buzzed in the air like storm-touched air.
She wore no armor now. Only black cloth tied with crimson bands. She needed no steel. Not anymore.
"Speak, Alpha-Bound," rumbled Elder Maerin, the one whose breath always seemed to carry frost. "You have passed our trial. You have taken the Nightborn pledge. But what would you ask of us now?"
Aria's gaze swept across the circle. The silence between each breath felt like the moment before a match is struck.
"I don't ask for war," she said. "I ask for unity. For strength. For truth. Voryn was not the end. There's something deeper stirring—older than him, older than flame."
There was a murmur, low and uneasy. Some of the younger warriors shifted on their heels.
