The world felt hollow in the aftermath of the storm.
Where once the capital of Elyria had soared with towers of white marble and spires that sang with wind, now there were only fragments — crumbled walls, broken arches, and the faint shimmer of magic dissolving into the morning air.
The sun rose slowly, cautious as if afraid to touch what was left.
Lyra stood at the edge of the ruins, her cloak torn, hair whipping in the cold wind. The pendant around her neck pulsed faintly, its once-blinding light now a soft, steady glow — like a heartbeat learning to breathe again.
Zephyr approached from behind, his usual confidence muted. “The storm’s gone,” he said quietly. “But the sky still hums. Like it’s… remembering.”
Lyra didn’t turn to face him. “It will remember for a long time. So will we
