The scream still echoed when the wind began to bleed.
Not in color.
In sound.
It rushed through the spiral clearing like a tide given voice, tugging at cloaks and hair, at memory and marrow. Trees bent, not with force, but reverence. The sky moaned above, split open like a page torn from a forgotten script. Elira staggered back, shielding her eyes from the rising light, her pulse caught between awe and terror.
Isabella didn’t move.
The shard of silver at the crater’s center pulsed once, then rose—weightless, humming, orbiting her in slow, widening circles. It carved patterns in the air, trailing afterimages of starlight and ancient runes.
The ground beneath her breathed.
The earth remembered.
Not just her.
Him.
The Crownless One.
His presence—no longer dormant—was not a figure,
