The portal glowed, a wound of green fire in the fabric of the undercroft. The First Luna’s command hung in the frigid air, a spell woven into the very bones of Kael’s oath. He stood frozen, one hand still on the black glass dagger, his face a battlefield where a lifetime of belief was being slaughtered.
He looked at his wrist, where the Mark of the Ancients had glowed. The source of his power, his purpose, his identity all of it a lie designed to leash him. The compulsion was a physical ache, a pull in his marrow toward the portal, toward obedience. To fulfill his core function: Deliver the Luna.
Elara saw the struggle in the tightening of his jaw, the tremor in his hand. She took a step forward, placing herself not between him and the portal, but beside him. “It’s a lie,” she said, her
