The sun was low on the horizon, casting long, amber shadows across the forested glade where Eryndor, Kaelen, and Seris had made camp. The remnants of their battle at the Nexus weighed heavily on them, the memory of Lyria’s demise still fresh.
Eryndor sat apart from the others, her back against a broad oak tree. The runes on her skin were faint now, their usual hum subdued. She traced them absentmindedly with her fingers, feeling their residual warmth. Though she had sealed the Nexus, the runes’ power still lingered within her, an ever-present reminder of her burden.
Kaelen sat cross-legged by the fire, sharpening one of his daggers with a whetstone. Sparks danced with each scrape of metal, his movements precise and methodical. “You know,” he said, breaking the silence, “for all her monol
