The sunlight greeted Ilyrana like a foreign warmth, stabbing through the horizon in gentle golds and hazy whites. After hours in the choking dark of the grandmaster's stronghold, even the fresh morning air bit into her lungs. The world had shifted again—alive, burning, loud.
She stood for a moment at the cave's mouth, her violet eyes sweeping across the battlefield that stretched before her. The clang of steel and the shouting of men still rang through the valley. The crusaders were still fighting—but unlike before, this time, they were winning.
It was just as Luke had guessed. Once the grandmaster fell, the tide shifted in their favour. The balance that had once teetered precariously now slammed to one side—theirs.
