Dawn never came.
The sky remained stained with the fading echo of the Blood Moon, a dull crimson haze lingering where the rift had torn reality apart. Smoke drifted lazily over the ruined valley, curling around broken bodies, shattered stone, and the lingering scent of ash and blood.
The battlefield had gone quiet.
But it was not peace.
It was the kind of silence that followed something unfinished.
Elara stood at the center of it all.
The ancient throne behind her had dimmed, its silver veins no longer blazing but still pulsing faintly—as if waiting. Watching.
The wolves had begun to gather again.
Not in war.
But in something far more uncertain.
Expectation.
Draven stood beside her, his presence steady and grounding despite the exhaustion lining his face. His arm brushed against hers occasionally, a silent reassurance that he was still there… still standing.
Still hers.
"They're all staring," he muttered under his breath.
Elara didn't look at him.
"I know."
