The wind that swept through Aetherhold was no longer cold.
It had changed—thickened with something heavier than snow or smoke. It carried the scent of old gods waking, of ancient oaths breaking. It was the kind of wind that passed through the lungs of the living and stirred the bones of the dead.
Selena stood at the highest edge of the war spire, where flame met frost in the sky. Her cloak, stitched with sigils of her line, whispered behind her in the gale. From this height, the horizon burned gold and crimson, not from sunset—but from the storm that lingered just beyond sight. The Seraphim were preparing. Their golden fleet had withdrawn beyond the clouds, but they had not retreated. No, they had recoiled like a serpent before it struck. And when it did, it would be swift and divine.
But Aetherhold would not kneel.
Not now.
Not ever.
