The cavern had not changed, yet everything felt different. The air was heavier, the silence sharper, as though the shadows themselves were listening. Ivy stood with water dripping from her gown, her chest still rising hard from the battle she had endured in shadow. The echo of Arthur’s laughter still scraped faintly in her memory, but it no longer struck the same terror—it felt weaker now, smaller, as though her defiance had wounded him.
The elder regarded her with solemn eyes, his silver robe glowing faintly in the torchlight. His presence was neither comfort nor threat, but something older—like the moon’s own witness, bound only to truth.
“You have survived Shadow,” he intoned. “Few do. But flame awaits, and fire consumes without mercy. Be certain of your resolve before you step forwar
