The air in Aetherhold had changed.
It no longer held the biting sting of winter's wrath or the fleeting warmth of fire. It held something far heavier—an unspoken grief, a breath of dread, and beneath it, the quiet thrum of resolve. The prophecy had unraveled too far to be stopped now, its threads sewn through every stone of the citadel. The walls remembered. The halls whispered. The child slept in the sanctum, but the entire fortress was awake with purpose.
Selena moved through the corridors like a storm held in check. Each step felt carved from stone, deliberate and unwavering. She felt her magic coiled beneath her skin, not wild, but waiting. Since the Oracle's revelations, her soul had been restless. Aralyn's betrayal had been confirmed, but it hadn't brought the satisfaction she imagined. Only sorrow. Only duty.
