The mountain shrine was a silent relic of an older, gentler time—its stone pillars cracked by centuries of wind and snow, the once-elaborate carvings half-buried beneath moss. Aria stood at its center, beneath a crumbling arch that had once provided shelter for pilgrims. Now, it only framed the starlit sky, revealing a sliver of moon veiled by ragged clouds.
She drew her cloak tighter, shivering from more than the cold. Rumors had reached her, even in the rogue hideouts, of a brutal assault on Stormborn territory. Talk of blood and a single rose left behind—her grandfather’s signature. Wolves whispered her name alongside the c*****e, fueling new terror that she, the Crimson Heir, might have orchestrated the slaughter.
But she hadn’t—and the guilt gnawed at her anyway. She recalled the fi
