The roar of the collapsing manor was still ringing in their ears as the dust began to settle over the Southern capital. What had once been the proud, gold-veined heart of House Vernhardt was now nothing more than a jagged mountain of white marble and broken glass.
Elric didn't look back. He stood in the center of the plaza, his chest heaving, his starlight-coated armor slowly fading back into dull, scorched steel. In his arms, Verona was still as a statue, her head tucked against the crook of his neck. She was breathing, but it was shallow, the rhythmic, heavy sleep of someone who had just spent a century's worth of soul in a single hour.
"Isella!" Elric called out, his voice hoarse.
Isella hurried over, her own mana flickering from the strain of holding the perimeter. She placed a hand on Verona's forehead, her eyes glowing briefly with a diagnostic blue light. "She's stable, Elric. She needs rest. And she needs the North."
