(Liora POV)
The lower levels of Blackspire still smelled of smoke and wet stone three weeks after the rite shattered.
Sunlight never reached down here — only torchlight and the faint silver glow that now lingered in cracks where my healing had touched the walls too many times. The corridors were quieter now. No more howls echoing from the bailey. No more crimson banners flapping like wounded birds. Just the steady rhythm of hammers, the scrape of shovels clearing rubble, the low murmur of voices learning — slowly — how to speak without fear.
I walked the east undercroft with a basket of clean bandages and a small clay jar of salve made from moonbloom and crushed silverleaf. My cloak was plain gray wool now — no healer's sigil, no silver embroidery. I hadn't worn the old mark since the night I killed Serena. It felt dishonest to carry it anymore.
