[: 3rd POV :]
As soon as the drop of Melira's blood was carefully placed into Sylvene's hands, a faint hum seemed to vibrate through the air, as if reality itself had paused to witness what was about to unfold.
Sylvene's eyes, ancient and fathomless, glimmered with a strange iridescence.
Slowly, she raised her hands, palms facing the vial, and whispered words older than the continent itself—words that carried the weight of fate and the inevitability of destiny.
"Threads of Aeonbind…" she intoned, her voice echoing across the grand hall like a resonance of both warning and promise.
The moment the words left her lips, the air around them shimmered with a prismatic brilliance.
From the drop of blood, countless threads of red erupted, weaving outward in every direction, stretching and spiralling like the intricate web of fate itself.
