The ground shook beneath them, a bone-chilling, earth-shaking movement as if the world itself were waking in wrath. Elira staggered as the ground beneath her shifted, distorted by powers beyond comprehension. The sky overhead bled rivulets of blood-red light, streaked with crackling flashes of purple lightning. Whatever they had set loose in the Sanctum, it had not only killed the Watcher—it had torn something deeper, something older, from slumber.
Kael caught her arm, steadying her with a grim expression etched across his face. "We're not alone."
Elira followed his gaze. The mist around them was thickening, rising like a tide, but it was not ordinary mist—it glowed faintly, laced with flickers of gold and shadow that danced in constant conflict. Whispers twisted through the air, voices not quite intelligible, but heavy with menace and sorrow.
A presence pressed against her mind—dozens of presences. Watching. Waiting.
