The morning after the storm’s end came with an eerie stillness.
For the first time in weeks, the sky over Elyria was clear — a soft, endless blue stretching over the horizon. The wind no longer carried the taste of ash or thunder, but something lighter, fragile, like the air before a new dawn.
Lyra stood before the gates of the ruined city, her cloak brushing against the cracked stone. Behind her, the others gathered — weary, yet resolute.
Zephyr adjusted the strap of his pack. “Feels strange leaving it behind,” he muttered, glancing back at the city that had been their battleground.
Thorne nodded, his gaze distant. “Strange, but right. What’s left here needs rebuilding — not more war.”
Eira stood apart, silent as ever, her eyes fixed on the horizon. When she finally spoke, her voice
