The ashes at her feet whispered of old truths, older curses. They curled in the wind like smoke from a battle long ended but never forgotten.
Veylan stared at the remnants, unmoving. He wasn't the kind of man to be undone by symbols or stories—he'd gutted monsters with less hesitation than most men took drawing breath—but this? This was different. This was sacred. And it had rejected him.
"I thought I was right," he said, more to himself than to her. "I was sure."
Myhra didn't answer. Her gaze remained locked on the dying embers, watching them scatter like the fragments of some long-dormant prophecy. She didn't want to speak, because if she did, her voice might tremble. Not from fear. But from the weight of something unnamed.
Finally, she straightened. Her armor clinked softly with the movement, a sound like closing doors.
"Belief isn't enough," she said, voice steady again. "Not when it comes to fate."
