The wind shifted. Not the kind that naturally rolled across shattered terrain or slipped through broken stone, but a slow, deliberate displacement of air, as if the world itself had paused to make room for something that didn't belong.
Ash drifted sideways instead of falling. Heat shimmered unevenly. The black-clad figures encircling the battlefield leaned slightly inward, not moving or breathing, but adjusting like a living mechanism tightening around its target.
Riven's gaze flickered past Valeria for a moment, settling on the figure standing to her left.
"Well… well," he said softly, his voice smooth and unhurried, carrying an unsettling warmth that chilled rather than comforted. "If it isn't another one who chose to run."
