Kael hadn’t spoken since the dawn.
The fortress was quiet now—no alarms, no battle cries, no hiss of spells in the air. Just the echo of bootsteps over worn stone and the uneasy rhythm of breath that came after too much had happened, too fast.
Elira followed him into the war room, the scent of ash still clinging to her skin. Her arms ached. Her mind burned with too many questions, but she didn’t ask them yet. Not while he looked like that.
He stood near the shattered map table, head bowed, hands braced against the edge. His sword lay at his side—unsheathed, unused. It had been hours since the battle. Since the Source fell.
Since Serin vanished without a trace.
“You’re still bleeding,” Elira said gently.
Kael didn’t look at her. “It’s not mine.”
That made something twist in her chest
