The next morning.
The storm didn’t stop. Not for dawn. Not for prayer. Not for the way Norma shouted at the sky like it owed her a refund.
Lightning coiled like serpents above the crater rim. The ground steamed beneath our boots as we finally reached the outer shell of the volcano’s basin. Lava hissed in cracks underfoot, and the sky was the color of dying embers—orange and bruised. The Rift loomed ahead.
A new one.
Smaller than before, but still there—open like a wound in the belly of the world. And it hummed. Dark magic spilled out like smoke, thick and bitter on the tongue.
Prince Damian Lucien stood beside me, sword drawn, already glowing faintly from the enchantments sewn into the steel.
“Why is it always raining when I fight monsters?” I grumbled, gripping my staff.
“Would you
