The morning sun was swallowed by a haze of smoke and ash, a grim reminder that the Eastern Kingdom’s heart was already in turmoil. The city below lay tense and cautious, the streets silent except for the occasional clatter of boots on cobblestone. Those who dared whisper spoke of the possessed king, of strange shadows moving in the palace, of golden-winged figures glimpsed fleetingly in the night.
Arabella stood atop a crumbling watchtower at the city’s edge, her cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders. The wind tugged at her hair, carrying faint scents of burning wood and iron. She closed her eyes, letting the currents of Aerthalis flow through her, testing the boundaries of her connection to Marcus, to the city, and to the people who still dared hope.
Beside her, Deborah, her mother,
