The silence didn’t last.Calen staggered to his feet, swaying. His sword dragged slightly in his grip, its edge scorched and steaming from the final burst of lightning. Blood dripped steadily from the torn gashes across his chest and side, soaking through the makeshift bandage he'd hastily tied around his shoulder. The cloth was saturated now—useless. His skin felt cold, too cold, and each breath came with a rasp of pain.He pressed onward.The path ahead shimmered faintly through the mist, weaving between trees that watched like sentient things. The oppressive gloom hung lower now, as if mourning—or warning. His vision swam, a haze of gray and red. His steps became sluggish, unsteady. Shadows twisted at the edges of his sight, and the cold seeped deeper into his bones.Then came the voices.Not loud—but there. Whispering. Taunting."Bleed, little storm.""So warm, so bright. We’ll drink it all.""Your fire dies here, Calen Storm. Let us feed."The same chorus of weeping and laughter

Light.Soft, warm, and golden—like dawn distilled into silk.It caressed Calen’s face like a mother’s touch, filtering through gossamer curtains that fluttered in an unseen breeze. Slowly, his consciousness floated upward from a dark, dreamless sea. Each breath he drew felt lighter, cleaner, as though the air itself were imbued with magic.He stirred.His body responded with ease, but it felt… different. Too different. His limbs no longer ached. The heavy weight in his chest—the constant tightness he had carried for years—was gone. He sat up with a sharp breath, startled by how effortless it was.The bed was nothing like any he had known.Its frame was of carved ivorywood shaped into wings and spirals. The sheets were a blend of midnight blue and silver, impossibly soft, threaded with strands that shimmered like starlight. Beneath his fingers, the texture felt almost like woven wind. Above him, the ceiling was not stone, but a dome of radiant crystal that sparkled with drifting conste

The halls of the royal estate were eerily silent, disturbed only by the soft echo of hurried footsteps and whispers that clung to the walls like mist. News of Calen Storm’s death had spread quickly—too quickly. And though many wore masks of indifference or whispered of politics and war, one soul within the palace felt it like a blade to the heart.Lila hadn’t left her chambers since she heard.She had locked the door the moment the words reached her ears, shutting out the world with trembling hands. The windows were drawn, the drapes pulled tight against the sun, as if the light itself were too cruel to endure. She sat on the edge of her bed, her knees drawn to her chest, tears spilling silently down her cheeks.“No… no, it can’t be,” she whispered to the empty room, her voice cracked and hoarse. “He can’t be gone.”Her mind tortured her with memories—Calen’s laughter, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered. The way he used to speak her name like a promise.

Carmen’s breath came in shallow gasps as she urged her weary horse forward, the city of Eryndall shrinking behind her like a shadow she could never fully outrun. Her fingers tightened nervously around the reins, the echo of Harlan’s threats still burning in her mind. Where could she go now? The once-familiar roads offered no safety, only memories tangled with danger.After what felt like hours of wandering aimlessly, Carmen recalled the small village she had visited just the day before. A humble place nestled near the forest’s edge, where an old friend awaited—a rare flicker of hope in a world turned hostile. She set her course toward it, heart pounding with both relief and fear.But doubt gnawed at her relentlessly. “What if Harlan’s men are already on my trail?” she whispered to herself, eyes scanning the darkening horizon. The sun dipped low, casting the sky in bruised shades of orange and purple that bled into twilight. The village lay ahead, but Carmen hesitated.Pulling her horse

Shadowmere, Hours LaterThe world returned to Calen in fragments—like slivers of broken glass refracting memory instead of light.His eyelids fluttered open, heavy as stone. He found himself lying atop a velvet-cushioned divan, its frame carved from blackheart oak and etched with inlaid silver. The ceiling above shimmered with enchanted reflections, as if moonlight were filtering through an unseen lake far above. Schools of translucent silverfish—creatures native only to the deepest sanctums of Shadowmere—drifted lazily across the arched dome, their luminescence casting a ghostly glow over the chamber.The air was heavy with the scent of cedar smoke and crushed lilies. Magic clung to it—subtle, but ancient. Living.Calen shifted, feeling the dampness of his own sweat clinging to his tunic. His skin was cold, unnaturally so, despite the warmth that radiated gently from the runed stones beneath the divan. His breath came in shallow pulls, as if his lungs remembered drowning.A figure st