The dawn broke gray and hesitant over the plains beyond Tharzyn. Clouds hung like bruises across the sky, and the wind was cold and sharp, carrying with it the faint scent of ash and iron. The ruins were quiet now, silent witnesses to the storm that had passed—and to the ones yet to come.
Kairen walked ahead of the group, his boots crunching against gravel and broken glass. He didn't speak. He hadn't spoken much since the battle.
Ahcehera watched him from a few paces behind, her gaze full of concern. She felt it too—the shift in him. The flame inside him no longer simmered; it pulsed. Waiting. Watching. Listening. It was no longer just a sealed power or cursed memory. It had awakened, and it had tasted freedom.
Fiorensia, walking beside her, spoke quietly. "We can't go on like this."
Ahcehera looked at her. "He's not dangerous. Not yet."
"But he's cracking. I saw the look in his eyes when the Devourer lunged. It wasn't fear. It was rage."
