The battlefield was quiet now.
Smoke drifted through the air in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of blood, magic, and burning stone. Hollow Fang Fortress—once an impenetrable fortress carved into the jagged mountain—now stood broken. Its towers leaned, its spires shattered, and its walls cracked open like a carcass split by divine fire.
Aria stood in the center of the destruction, her chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The Flameborn Crown, dimmed to a soft golden glow, floated an inch above her brow, flickering gently like a hearth fire at dusk. It no longer screamed for war.
It had tasted victory.
But Aria had not.
Not fully.
Her gaze scanned the ruin. The bodies of enemies and allies were scattered alike, the ground stained with the price of survival. She recognized too many faces among the fallen—wolves who had once bowed to her, who had trusted her to lead them into this inferno and pull them through the other side.
