The Riftlands groaned with forgotten voices.
Stone split beneath his feet, the wind churning with scents that hadn't touched mortal air in eons. Blood. Burnt feathers. Ash. And something sweeter—like the last breath before a kiss, or the pause between lightning and thunder.
He didn’t move.
He had stood at the edge of the world before. He had seen realms crumble. He had watched mortals build temples to lies. But this—this crackling, still silence—this was different.
It was her.
Not Seraphiel. Not the one whose voice had once called stars into being.
But hers.
Rose.
The child born of their defiance. The storm given a name.
And she was waking up.
He could feel her soul pulsing—slow, unfamiliar, like a song being hummed in a forgotten key. The seals were breaking. Not shattering, not
