The words fell like a bell toll.
"It's time."
Everything stilled.
The wind stopped.
Even the forest, usually alive with whispers of life, stood frozen.
Elder Lao's voice had cracked through more than just silence. It had snapped the veil between past and present—between ritual and reality.
The Ritual of Renewal was about to begin.
But Khael, watching from where he stood beside Ceyla, couldn't shake the unease clawing at his spine.
(It's time? No. It's too early. Something's wrong.)
Below, Raiquen lay groaning beneath a pile of fractured stone, blood dripping down his temple, steam rising from his burned cloak. Eliryn had not moved. Her scythe was still leveled, not at her former comrade but at the Elders.
Her silence screamed louder than words.
Behind her, the five rebels stood again—bruised, battered, but burning with defiance. Even as Ko and Li approached them again, their faces masked with quiet discipline, there was no killing blow.
