The first wind of the new age blew across the ruins of the Gate.
Not a gale. Not a breeze.
But only a breath.
Soft. Subtle. Full of life.
It ruffled dust that had not moved in centuries, stroked the moss that veiled shattered pillars, and danced among the curling edges of the last spell ever cast beneath the old sky.
The Gate—now little more than a broken ring of silver and voidglass—trembled with gentle echoes. Where it had pulsed with the bitter pull of destiny, now it hung still. Empty. Beautiful in quiet.
But not for long, after such destruction, did silence hang.
A tremor disturbed the veil.
And then—a footstep.
Boots upon stone.
Not Elira's.
Not Kael's.
But another's.
A figure wrapped in gray, face hidden behind a hood embroidered with starthread. Their presence neither heralded nor concealed, as if they were here—as if they had always been here, waiting patiently before appearing.
