The tension in the Sky-Mirror Spire was a physical thing, a cold knot in Damon's gut that had tightened with Luna's final, chilling words. They're already here. While Seraphina and the newly formed, fractious alliance descended into urgent, hushed strategizing, Damon's world had narrowed to two points: his wife, radiating a fierce, focused energy, and his daughter, who now sat slumped against a crystal wall, her face pale and drawn from the effort of her warning.
He moved to Luna's side, ignoring the grand arguments about magical logistics and anchor placements. He knelt, his calloused hands—better suited for stacking books than wielding spells—gently covering hers. They were ice-cold.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice a low rumble against the rising din of panicked voices. "Look at me, kiddo."
Luna's gaze was distant, fixed on some horrific internal vista. "They're… pressing against the edges, Dad. Like fingers on a soap bubble. I can feel the strain."
