The night hung heavy over the camp, cloaked in silence except for the restless whisper of the wind against the trees. Aria stood at the edge of the firelight, the heat on her skin unable to chase away the cold gnawing at her chest. The triplets were nearby—Marcus sharpening his blade, Tobias checking the maps, Dorian pacing like a caged predator—but none of it soothed the storm inside her.
The prophecy had unraveled in pieces these past days, each fragment sharper than the last. And now, the full weight of it bore down on her: one bond must shatter for the Flameborn crown to endure.
Her bond.
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, feeling the pulse of the triplets' spirits through the threads of the bond. They were her strength, her heart, her reason for fighting. To lose even one of them was unthinkable, but fate did not bend to wishes.
