The first light of morning broke across the shattered peaks of the Hollow Throne.
Mist curled through the air like drifting souls. The wind, once screaming with the power of the storm, was silent — reverent, almost afraid to stir.
Lyra stirred first. Her eyes opened to a sky painted gold and crimson, the kind of light that felt wrong after so much darkness. Her limbs trembled as she pushed herself upright, the stone beneath her hands still warm with lingering energy.
She looked around, panic building.
“Eryndor?”
Her voice cracked in the stillness.
No answer.
Only the soft hum of magic dissipating into the air — the residue of something immense and final.
---
One by one, the others awoke.
Zephyr groaned, clutching his head as though thunder still rang inside his skull. Thorne coug
