He floated in darkness shot through with burning light, flashes so bright they left afterimages across his closed eyes. He saw fragments of the battle: claws lashing, teeth snapping, his blade cutting through smoke and shadow.
He heard the echo of a voice not his own, deep and terrible, promising power in exchange for surrender. He felt the heat in his veins, scorching, splitting him apart from the inside.
And through it all, warmth pressed at the edges. The faint touch of hands he knew, familiar, gentle, refusing to let him slip. He clung to that warmth as though it were the only real thing left.
xxxx
Far from the ruin of the academy, the throne room was lit with gold. The morning sun poured through windows tall enough to dwarf men, its light glinting off polished marble floors.
Banners embroidered with the royal crest hung in dignified symmetry along the walls, their crimson fabric untouched by smoke or ash.
