The sky cracked.
Not with thunder.
With breath.
As Isabella stepped beyond the Ashen Hollow, the world shivered like skin brushed by prophecy. The air grew charged—not storm-filled, but expectant. Clouds peeled back in jagged spirals. The treetops bowed as though in mourning or awe, though no wind passed between them. Even the birds fell silent, as if the very pulse of the land had paused to witness her.
The ground beneath her boots didn’t feel solid.
It felt aware.
Elira didn’t speak at first. She walked half a step behind Isabella, hand never straying far from her blade. Her movements were careful, but her eyes were filled with questions she didn’t know how to voice.
Instead, she watched.
Watched Isabella walk like something reborn—not as a queen, not as a weapon, but as a truth.
