The battlefield steamed beneath the torn sky, the scorched terrain still pulsing with the aftermath of the Phoenix's wrath. Molten cracks glowed faintly beneath the shattered soil, and stray cinders floated like haunted stars in the mist. No one spoke. The air was too thick with the scent of burnt magic and the weight of what they had all just survived.
But everyone moved.
Five remained on the field from the core leadership of both factions.
Ashen. Layla. Rayne. Rin. Nyx.
And the war was not over.
Layla tightened her grip on her twin sabers, the frost-runes on their blades glowing with a faint, cold light. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, but her gaze never wavered. She looked across the field where Rayne stood like a looming monolith, his tattered cloak fluttering in the breeze stirred by his own volatile magic. His glaive glinted in the fading light, his form a silhouette of blood and wind.
