The aftermath of the battle had left the Sun-Seeker temple in a state of liminal silence. The air was a thick, clashing cocktail of scents: the metallic ozone of Vera's frost, the acrid smoke of burnt sand, and the faint, haunting perfume of winter jasmine that seemed to follow the carriage like a ghost.
The Western soldiers moved like shadows, their footsteps muffled by the layer of silver frost that now coated the ancient stone. They worked in quiet coordination with the Northern mages, a fragile truce born of shared survival. But the tension remained, coiled like a serpent beneath the surface. Everyone knew that the moment the "Winter Catalyst" was no longer in immediate danger, the daggers would come out once more.
