Vivian's lips parted again, but her voice caught in her throat, useless, like a fire choking on its own smoke.
Her hand trembled, still half-lifted, fingers curled as if to cast another spell, but they no longer listened to her commands.
The flames that once obeyed her without question, the ones that destroyed both the Pope and the Saintess of Ashes, two major powerhouses, were now hesitant, swirling nervously around her shoulders, dimmer than before.
It wasn't fear that made her falter.
It wasn't exhaustion either, though her limbs were growing heavy, and her heart beat unsteadily within her chest like something half-broken and struggling to hold together.
It was the look in his eyes.
Aestrea hadn't said a word, hadn't moved from where he stood at the edge of the crater, his boots soaking in blood that wasn't his, surrounded by melted marble and warped stone.
But something about him was... different.
He felt strangely... absolute.
