The night was a storm of whispers and fire. The shattered remnants of the rogue army pressed against the borders like a tide that refused to retreat. Each hour brought a new report—skirmishes in the western pass, sightings of flame-eyed scouts near Hollow Fang, omens carved into trees in blood. The world itself seemed to tremble as if waiting for a decision no one dared to name aloud.
Aria stood at the balcony of the war room, her fingers tightening around the railing until the stone dug crescents into her skin. The triplets were behind her, their energy a wall of support, yet the heaviness in her chest refused to lift.
It had been days since the Flameborn crown had awakened fully in her presence. Its power coiled inside her, restless, unpredictable, begging to be unleashed. Every night she dreamt of fire and shadows, of voices chanting her name as if she were both salvation and destruction.
