The morning after Aria's collapse in the Hollow Deep was heavy with silence.
The camp was no longer just a gathering of warriors—it had become a waiting room for a prophecy none could decipher. Every scout who returned from the mountain spoke of strange things: birds flying backward, trees growing in spirals, even dreams that bled into waking.
Inside the healer's tent, Aria lay still, sweat beading on her forehead as her crown glowed faintly on the ground beside her. Her breaths were shallow but steady, like something within her was holding her in place—neither waking nor dreaming.
Dorian hadn't left her side.
He sat rigidly in the wooden chair, hand clasped around hers, jaw clenched. Tobias stood just outside the flap of the tent, his arms folded, watching every movement inside with unreadable eyes. Marcus paced the edge of the camp, speaking to every guard, keeping everything tightly woven.
When Selene entered the tent again, Dorian rose sharply. "What happened?"
