A curved blade sang toward his neck—but Calen ducked low, twisting, and released a crack of thunder that threw her off balance. He turned into a spin, his foot sweeping the battlefield, summoning a cyclone that scattered the flames and soldiers alike.Ebran chanted, his arms glowing with Aerondale’s war sigils. Pillars of fire erupted from the sky—an invocation forbidden by Vynorian laws. Calen raised a shield of wind above him, but the impact still threw him back, skidding across broken stone and ash.He coughed up blood. But he rose.“You’ll die for that child?” Nyra sneered, reappearing in front of him.“I’ll die for every child you would silence,” Calen roared.And then he surged forward—lightning wreathing his body, his storm magic no longer just a weapon, but an oath.Their blades clashed mid-air—wind against shadow, thunder against silence.Every strike shook the earth.Every heartbeat echoed the song of the Sacred River, now screaming for justice.But Calen knew—this wasn’t ju

The echo of Carmen’s words—“We’re too late”—hung heavy in the air. The chamber trembled slightly under their feet, as if the Sacred River above them was reacting to the final moments of Avenya’s heartbeat.Calen stepped forward, his boots crunching against broken crystal and scorched stone. His breath was ragged, every muscle in his body screaming from the last battle, but his eyes—storm-filled and unwavering—burned with renewed purpose.“No,” he said, voice like thunder. “We’re not too late. She’s still alive. I can feel it.”Carmen knelt beside Liora’s unconscious body, gently brushing dust from her bloodied face. “She’s weak… but breathing. The crystal drained her energy, but it didn’t kill her.”A sudden pulse of ancient magic surged from deeper within the temple. Carmen winced, clutching her head.“The ritual’s not done,” she whispered. “They’re binding her spirit to the heart of the river… If they complete the circle—Avenya dies, and the Sacred River dies with her.”Calen turned

The battlefield fell into a hush as the tremors subsided, leaving only the cries of wounded soldiers and the distant hiss of evaporating steam.Then… the mountain split open.A thunderous roar shattered the sky. From the sundered ruins of the ancient prison beneath Vynoria’s sacred ground, something vast emerged. Wings the size of cities unfurled—scarred, cracked, and burned through with time, yet pulsing with power. Scales like molten obsidian glinted beneath the dimming sun as the massive form rose, blotting out the heavens.The great dragon had returned.“Tharstan,” Aelion Draeven breathed, horror thick in his voice. “He… comes.”Gasps echoed across the broken battlefield. The Vynorian legions, bloodied but unbowed, stumbled back. The ranks of Aerondale, struck mute by awe and dread, dropped their blades and shields.All stood still—facing the beast of legend.Calen Storm remained rooted. Wind tore at his cloak, stormlight dancing in his eyes. That presence—he knew it. Not from mem