The bronze coin was cold against Clek's palm.
He stood in the garden, the morning sun struggling to break through a thick blanket of gray clouds. The air was heavy, oppressive, carrying a faint metallic tang that reminded him of blood. The city was quiet—too quiet. The survivors moved through the streets like ghosts, their faces pale, their eyes hollow.
The attack had been repelled. The Shadowed were destroyed. But something was wrong. Something had changed.
Aria's presence flickered in his mind, soft and concerned. "Clek. You've been standing here for hours. What's wrong?"
"The coin," he said, his voice flat. "It's cold again. Colder than before."
"What does that mean?"
Clek was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the coin. Then he spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "It mean
