The winds of change whispered through the ruins as Eryndor and her companions made their way from the sanctuary. The sun hung low in the sky, casting an amber hue over the world, yet it did little to dispel the heavy silence that hung between them. Each step seemed to echo in the emptiness, a reminder that their victory over Lyria was not the end, but a beginning of a much darker struggle.
Eryndor’s thoughts were a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—relief that the immediate threat had been dealt with, dread at the certainty that others would soon come to claim the runes, and uncertainty about the path ahead. The power that had once felt like a curse now pulsed within her like a constant, ever-present companion. She couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before it consumed her, too.
