The rain had not yet touched the battlefield, but the skies wept ash from distant fires—embers drifting like sorrow on the wind. Aria stood at the center of the ruined temple courtyard, her boots sinking into the scorched stone, the golden sigils beneath her feet still pulsing with ancient power. The Crown hovered just above her head, wreathed in flickering flame, a halo of rebellion and rebirth.
She could feel them before she saw them—Dorian's steady flame, Tobias's surging storm, Marcus's resolute earth. Their presence in her mind was a tether stronger than iron, a force grounding her when the magic threatened to swallow her whole.
The moment they stepped into the circle of ancient runes, the air trembled.
"You're pushing yourself too far," Marcus said, his voice a low rumble, eyes narrowed on the threads of fire spiraling from her fingertips.
