The crypt still pulsed with starfire.
Rhaeser knelt beside Isabel's still form, the pendant fused to her wrist like a second heart. Runic spirals blazed down both their arms, etched by searing magic no ink could replicate.
“Isabel," he whispered. “Open your eyes."
Her lashes fluttered, but no sound escaped her lips.
“She's alive," murmured the healer, pressing fingers to her throat. “But barely."
“She gave too much," Caldus muttered from the shadows. “And you took it."
Rhaeser didn't respond. He simply stood.
And fire followed him.
Not the wild, lashing blaze that once ravaged villages and scorched allies alike—but a quiet, controlled inferno that bent to his will.
He walked toward the courtyard entrance.
Outside, chaos reigned.
Fire trebuchets launched bursts of molten pitch. A
