The moment Ryon collapsed into the embers of the Hollow Flame Monarch's remains, silence surged through Fyrhaal like a tidal wave. No wind. No roar. Just the stillness of a breath caught in time.
Elara ran to him, sliding on the fractured runes that burned hot beneath her boots. The sigil burned into Ryon's chest pulsed with golden fire—intertwined with cold blue veins of frost, warring inside his skin. His body convulsed, torn between two ancient forces that should never have met.
"Hold him down!" Elara cried. Shaera and Kaela pinned his arms as he spasmed, his eyes glowing white.
Neive began to chant. Her voice was uneven, her lips trembling with dread. She had seen many deaths. But never this kind of transformation.
"I don't think he's dying," she whispered. "I think he's... shifting."
Aurelia stepped forward, her breath short. "The Monarch chose him. That bond was older than us. It waited for someone who could carry both flame and frost."
