The wind clawed through the shattered spires of the ruined citadel, carrying with it the scent of smoke, iron, and something darker—an ancient power awakening from centuries of silence. Aria stood at the edge of the courtyard, her boots crunching over fractured stones still stained with dried blood. The air pulsed with energy, raw and merciless, like a heartbeat echoing from the ground itself.
Beside her, Dorian tightened his grip on his sword, the obsidian blade glowing faintly with the etchings of runes that hadn't pulsed for years. His jaw was clenched, his gaze fixed forward, every muscle in his body strung tight like a bowstring ready to snap.
"This place reeks of death," Tobias muttered, running a hand through his dark hair as his eyes scanned the horizon. He always had a way of cutting tension with honesty, though now his words only added to the weight pressing against Aria's chest.
