The fires of the Gathering still smoldered across Crimson Hollow, their embers trailing into the midnight sky like a thousand whispered oaths. The flame of allegiance had been lit—but beneath its golden glow, shadows stirred.
Aria stood alone atop the ridge above the plateau, the Flameborn crown still glowing gently with the magic of her speech. Her heart thudded with triumph, but also unease. Victory, she had learned, never came without its echo.
Behind her, the camp was still buzzing. Alphas mingled with generals, scouts shared intel over wine, and the triplets moved like anchors through the chaos, maintaining order. Yet there was a tension in the air—coiled, electric.
She turned her face to the wind.
A sharp snap of sound cracked behind her.
Aria spun just in time to see a flicker in the wards—a ripple in the air, like heat on stone. Her magic surged instinctively, and the crown flared.
The shimmer coalesced into a figure. Clad in black and gray, masked, eyes glowing violet.
