Dawn came reluctantly.
The light that bled across the horizon was pale and distorted, painting the world in tones of silver and violet instead of gold. Ash still drifted from the direction of the Citadel, carried by winds that hissed faint whispers through the trees. The air felt wrong — thick, humming faintly with residual magic.
Eryndor led the group through the barren landscape in silence. His cloak was torn, his hair streaked with soot, and his mismatched eyes — one gold, one gray-black — caught the dull morning light. The others followed at a distance, weary and watchful, saying little.
It was Zephyr who finally broke the silence. “The wind’s wrong,” he muttered, his hand hovering near his staff. “It’s moving in circles. Like it’s… listening.”
Thorne grunted. “You think everything
