The last echoes of the Weaver's psychic death scream faded into nothingness. The vast temple chamber was finally, truly silent.
The oppressive, malevolent presence that had suffocated the Whispering Mire for a thousand years was gone, leaving a clean, empty quiet in its place.
Rhys stood in the center of the room, the unconscious form of Emma held securely in his arms. He looked at the massive stone pillar that had been the Weaver's anchor.
The sickly green and purple light within it had vanished, and the strange, crystalline material it was made from had crumbled into a fine, glittering dust that now covered the floor. The battle was over.
He looked down at Emma. She was pale, and her breathing was shallow, but her face was peaceful. The strain of the long psychic battle was gone.
The torrent of raw energy she had absorbed had pushed her to her absolute limit, but she had survived.
