The plaza was silent, save for the rhythmic, unsettling thrum of the red-tinged glass flowers. They no longer swayed with the grace of living flora. They stood rigid, vibrating with a frequency that felt like a serrated blade against Elara’s nerves.
Julian set her down, his legs giving way beneath him. He collapsed into the grass, his golden scales flaking away like scorched parchment, revealing the pale, vulnerable skin of a man who had burned his last ember.
Elara knelt beside him, her hands hovering over his chest where the dragon fire used to roar. It was quiet. The King of Draconia was fading, not into ash, but into the hollow exhaustion of a mortal who had carried the weight of a sun.
Julian, stay with me, she urged, her voice breaking. The rift is closing, and the Curator is go
