The battlefield still reeked of smoke and blood when dawn broke across the horizon, streaking the sky with bruised shades of purple and red. The war drums had ceased, but silence did not mean peace—it only meant that both sides were waiting, wounded, counting breaths until the next strike. Aria stood on the edge of the ridge overlooking the ruined valley, her body aching, her throat raw from both command and spellcasting.
But it wasn't the sight of the wounded Flameborn soldiers or the scattered rogues that gnawed at her chest—it was the absence.
Dorian. Tobias. Marcus.
Their presence, usually a steady pulse in the bond, now flickered like candle flames in a storm. Weak. Distant. Barely holding.
"Aria." Selene's voice was low as she approached, carrying the weight of exhaustion. Her white robes were streaked in blood, her once luminous eyes dimmed from overuse of her seer's magic. "You need to rest. You've pushed yourself past—"
