The world was bleeding.
Not in the way flesh wounds did—but in the way that skies cracked, mountains trembled, and magic wept from the veins of the earth itself. The battlefield lay in ruins, carved by divine fury and mortal defiance. Ash rained from the heavens, mixing with blood and steel in a grotesque symphony of war.
Selina staggered to her feet, her obsidian blade slick with black ichor. Around her, the ground was scorched and broken, the aftermath of Kareth’s arrival still pulsing with residual heat. The air smelled of ozone and charred bone.
Somewhere in the chaos, Elira’s protective wards shimmered faintly, flickering like dying stars.
“Selina!” Zane’s voice reached her through the smoke.
She turned, breath ragged. He was limping, his right arm torn and bleeding, but his eyes
