The battlefield had fallen into an uneasy silence.
The clash of magic and steel had faded into distant echoes, replaced by the brittle hum of tension that hung heavy in the air. The flames flickered low, casting fractured shadows across the clearing where the war flames' faint glow still pulsed — shimmering, but alive.
Luca could feel it — the change. The war outside had paused for them, but another kind of battle had begun.
Sylthara stood before the Elf Queen, her body trembling, her breath uneven. Her golden eyes, sharp and bright a moment ago, now shimmered with barely restrained emotion. She clenched her fists so tightly her knuckles turned white, the veins along her arms straining as if her body itself was fighting to contain her rage.
Across from her, the Elf Queen stood tall — regal, silent, her long olive-golden hair flowing like moonlight. Her gaze was calm, unreadable… but cold.
The air between them was suffocating.
