The summit grounds were eerily quiet in the aftermath of the battle. The scent of smoke and blood lingered, but the wind had shifted, carrying with it the subtle hint of pine and new beginnings. Warriors moved through the debris, aiding the wounded, dousing the last of the rogue fires, and mourning the fallen.
Evelyn stood near the edge of the courtyard, her cloak tattered, the silver embroidery now stained with soot and blood. She hadn’t slept. Her power still hummed beneath her skin, refusing to settle, and Aria’s presence in her mind pulsed with quiet restlessness.
“Evelyn,” a voice called softly.
She turned to find Malia walking toward her, a wrap around her arm and a tired smile on her face.
“The eastern ridge is secure,” Malia reported. “The rogues have retreated beyond the Black
