The great hall was a storm.
Wendigos shrieked and lunged, their claws gouging deep scars into the stone, leaving runes of rage behind them. Skinwalkers slipped like black water over the fallen, flesh warping as they wore the faces of friends in mockery. Magic surged through the air—volatile, unchecked—a storm of blood and light and fear. Screams ricocheted off the marble pillars, cries of pain, of war, of the last prayers of dying gods. Creatures fought not only for survival, but for meaning—for proof that hope hadn’t been a lie.
And in the center of it all stood Rose.
Still.
Steady.
Her breath slow. Her eyes unflinching.
In her grip was no common blade.
The sword hummed with memory. Older than the stars, older even than the division between night and day. Forged from truth. Tempere
