The night was long, longer than even the stones of Hell seemed to endure. The others slept—or feigned sleep—in the shattered husk of the palace. Azezal's mutters had finally stilled, the Elder's shadow had folded itself into silence, and Atlas, though half aflame even in slumber, had let his head rest against the ruin of a column. Only Aurora kept her vigil.
Her body had returned to its usual form; the monstrous flickers of transformation had faded. The third eye dimmed, its glow receding like a storm beyond the horizon. For a moment, she simply sat in the quiet and listened.
The air was thick, damp, tasting faintly of rust and burnt incense. Each breath scraped against her throat as though the night itself resented being inhaled. The silence was not peace but weight—an anvil pressing down, daring anyone to break it.
She rose. Her movement was noiseless, deliberate.
