It did not begin with thunder.
It began with memory.
Not Aelira’s—not entirely. These were older, buried in root and ruin, carried on winds that remembered names no lips had spoken in centuries. The kind of memory that didn’t whisper, but claimed.
Lightning split the sky, gold and unnatural, painting the Blood Grove in veins of light. The moment her twin vanished into mist, something ancient surged forward, uncoiling from deep beneath the earth.
Astren didn’t wait. His hand found hers, but her skin burned cold—too bright, too still.
He pulled anyway.
They ran.
Through the forest that twisted in on itself. Through wind that spoke in dead tongues. Through silence thick as prophecy. Behind them, the Blood Grove pulsed like a second heart, beating faster, louder.
And Aelira—gods, Aelir
