The battlefield was silent at last.
Ash drifted like snow through the air, settling over the torn earth where fire and shadow had clashed in merciless waves. The cries of war had faded into whispers carried on the wind, replaced by the weary breaths of survivors who dared to hope that the nightmare had ended.
Aria stood at the heart of it all, her body trembling, her skin smeared with blood and soot. The Flameborn crown, still glowing faintly, rested against her brow. Its fire was no longer a raging inferno—it had softened, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat, no longer a weapon but a symbol of what had been reclaimed.
Dorian's hand found hers, strong despite the cuts streaking his arms. Tobias stood close, his golden eyes burning with quiet protectiveness, while Marcus—ever the anchor—rested a steadying hand on her shoulder. They formed a circle around her, their bond wrapping around her soul like an unbreakable shield.
