The world was quiet in the way of graves. Nothing stirred except the whisper of wind through the blackened ruins, carrying with it the scent of burnt earth and iron. Kael stood alone amidst it all, his body trembling, his claws slick with blood that wasn't entirely his. The moon above hung low and sickly, veiled in a dim halo of red—as though even the heavens mourned what had been taken.
Lyria was gone.
Not dead. No—death would've been mercy. She had been claimed, torn from flesh and light, her soul folded into the heart of the Hollow. Her presence still thrummed faintly inside his chest, a faint echo that refused to die, but it was distant, like the ghost of a heartbeat in a world that no longer knew how to breathe.
Kael pressed a trembling hand over the mark on his chest. It pulsed once—weakly. "You promised me you wouldn't leave," he whispered, voice rough, almost a growl.
