The storm did not simply arrive. It announced itself like a verdict whispered across the bones of the world.
The sky bruised slowly, colors draining into iron and ash, until even the horizon seemed to hold its breath. Thunder did not roar. It prowled. Low. Patient. Listening.
As if the heavens themselves waited for Aria to decide what she would become.
She stood barefoot at the towering window of Damien's private wing, a thin robe wrapped loosely around her, dark hair damp where restless sleep had abandoned her. Rain struck the glass in relentless waves, each drop echoing faintly inside her chest. Not pain.
Recognition.
The land was still listening.
Still watching.
Still… answering.
Behind her, the chamber pulsed with quiet power. The wards Damien had woven into the walls hummed like a living shield, layered, precise, unbreakable. She could feel his presence in them. Not just magic. Intention. Protection shaped by devotion and iron will.
