The golden column of flame erupted into the sky of Vael'ethor, cutting through the swirling indigo and crimson clouds like a blazing beacon. The heat from the signaling altar hummed against my palms, steady and grounding, casting long, dancing shadows across the polished white marble of the Southern Shrine.
Elara leaned heavily against the stone pedestal beside me, her breathing gradually slowing. Her torn blue dress was caked in dried mud and white salt dust, her dark hair tangled with twigs and fine obsidian powder, but the frantic, wild panic in her eyes had finally settled into a weary calm.
"Well," she murmured, gazing up at the pillar of light piercing the dark heavens. "If there is anything alive within fifty leagues, it certainly knows we are here now."
