The dawn that broke over Elyria was unlike any other.
The skies shimmered with two suns — one golden, one ghostly pale — circling each other like predators. The air thrummed with an uneasy pulse, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Eryndor stood at the edge of the valley, watching the heavens twist. Behind him, the others packed what little they had gathered from the sanctuary — weapons, rations, fragments of the shattered crystal they had recovered from the Temple of Mirrors.
Lyra approached, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “It’s spreading, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “The rift between realms. Every time the voice stirs within me, the balance weakens.”
Zephyr stepped forward, his wind-torn cloak fluttering. “Then we can’t linger. The storms will reach us soon.”
Ei
