The aftermath of the skirmish hung thick in the air—smoke coiling upward from scorched earth, blood soaking into the cracked stones of the battlefield. The fortress walls bore the scars of the godborn assault, charred and clawed, like the realm itself had been torn open and left to bleed.
Selina stood amid the ruin, her chest heaving, her blade still humming faintly with residual magic. Around her, the others tended to the wounded. Elira moved swiftly between bodies, her healing aura glowing brighter than ever before, yet her eyes were shadowed with dread. Zane stood a few paces from Selina, his arms crossed tightly as if holding something in—his rage, or his grief, she couldn’t be sure.
But Selina… she could feel it. That tug. The pull that hadn’t left her since the god first whispered
