That night, the Spire was draped in a silence so heavy it felt like a physical weight. I stood on the outer ramparts with Killian, watching the three moons of the ancient world rise in a perfect crystalline arc over the jagged peaks. The air was bitingly cold, but it tasted of pine and possibility—it was the first time in my life I had breathed air that didn't feel like it belonged to someone else.
“If we stay,” Killian said, his heavy arm wrapped around my shoulder, pulling me into the warmth of his side. “We become the ghosts in the stories, Elara. We become the ancestors that the elders used to tell us about when the subway heaters failed. We become the legends.”
“And what if the legends were wrong?” I asked, leaning my head against his chest, listening to the steady, powerful thrum
