The darkness surged, swallowing constellations one after another. The Tower trembled under its weight, silver crystal cracking as if it, too, feared the wings above.
Prava tightened her grip on the Heart Key, its light flickering, fragile against the abyss. Rafael stood beside her, sword ablaze though the flames wavered. Allara raised her staff, chanting words older than memory, weaving fragile strands of starlight.
But the Wings of Darkness struck. A gust of shadow slammed against them, shattering their shield and throwing them back. Stars blinked out above as if smothered by invisible hands.
Prava's knees hit the stone. Her chest ached, her strength fading.
"Why… why does it feel like hope itself is dying?"
The Heart Key pulsed faintly in her hands, dimmer than ever.
Rafael knelt beside her, gripping her shoulder. His voice, though strained, carried unwavering resolve.
"Because this is what the shadow wants—to make you believe there's nothing left. But as long as you hold on, even to a single spark… hope lives."
Allara's voice cut through the storm, fierce and clear.
"Light does not end where darkness begins. It only waits for one who dares to kindle it again!"
Prava closed her eyes, tears streaming. She thought of the Wolf tribe, the Dragons, the friends she had gained and the bonds they forged. She thought of the Elder's words: The path ahead will not be won by claw or fire, but by the unity of hearts.
Her hands stopped trembling. She stood.
The Heart Key burst into radiance—blinding, unyielding. Its glow was no longer her own, but the shared light of every bond, every sacrifice, every heart that had walked beside her.
The Wings of Darkness recoiled, shrieking as the Tower blazed with renewed brilliance. The last light had awoken.