The Tower's star flared violently, its brilliance swallowed by an encroaching shadow. From the sky above, the constellations writhed, torn apart by an unseen force. What had once been symbols of unity now fractured, scattering into broken fragments of light.
Then, out of the darkness, wings unfurled—vast, jagged, and endless. They blotted out the heavens, stretching wider than the horizon itself. Each beat of those wings shook the very fabric of the Tower's realm, sending ripples across the sea of stars.
Prava staggered back, clutching the Heart Key as it burned with both light and warning. Rafael drew his blade, its flame wavering under the suffocating presence.
"Allara…" his voice was low. "What… is that?"
Allara's eyes glistened with fear she rarely allowed herself to show.
"The Wings of Darkness. A force older than our tribes, older than the Tower. It is the shadow born from the first flame—the price of creation itself."
The air split with a cry unlike any sound of beast or dragon, a sound that pierced through flesh and bone. The shadow descended, its form shifting between fire and void.
Prava raised the Heart Key, her voice trembling but resolute.
"If this is the price, then we will face it together."
The Heart Key pulsed, casting a sphere of radiant light around them, a fragile shield against the looming dark. But the wings only grew larger, and the stars above dimmed one by one.
The final battle had begun—light against shadow, unity against the abyss.