Lucian’s POV
The silence of my sanctum was usually absolute – a frozen, curated stillness that suited the nature of my work – but today, it was fractured. A low, rhythmic thrumming vibrated through the obsidian floorboards, travelling up through the soles of my boots and into the very marrow of my bones. It was the mountain, singing.
I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out over the jagged peaks that cradled Oakhaven. The moon was a sliver of ice in the darkening sky, but the atmosphere was heavy with an elemental pressure I had not felt in twenty years – not since Adelaide threw me into the silver mines to rot for the sin of my own ambition.
"It is done," I murmured, my voice a dry rasp in the stillness of the room.
The Trinity Spark – the ancient, volatile essence that was
