Night gathered like a living thing—thick, heavy, breathing. The kind of darkness that didn't simply fill the sky but watched from it.
Alys stood at the heart of the courtyard, the cold creeping up her spine as the wards thrummed beneath her feet. The air tasted metallic, charged with the same static hum that precedes lightning or catastrophe. Torches along the stone walls guttered, their flames bowing away from the invisible pressure building outside the kingdom's protective barrier.
Every breath she took seemed to pulse in rhythm with that unseen force.
Kestren approached her from the left, his presence unmistakable even before she turned. Shadows clung to him more tightly than to anyone else—drawn, she suspected, to the darkness coiled in his veins. But tonight, his shadows were restless, shifting like smoke caught in an unfelt wind.
"You're certain you're ready for this?" he asked softly.
