The sky cracked open with a thunder not born of clouds.
From the highest spires of the Moonblood Palace, the horizon shimmered—like heat rising from a desert—until flame itself began to walk. The Hollowborn didn't march; they shimmered into being like shadows torn from the edge of nightmares, their eyes empty voids, their bodies pale and cracked like dried ash.
Lyra stood on the steps of the inner courtyard, the wind catching her cloak, her hands glowing with low-burning flame. She had seen battle. She had seen loss. But this—this was different.
This wasn't an invasion.
This was a message.
The palace bells had not finished their third ring before the first gate exploded inward.
Screams rose like incense, not of fear, but defiance. The Flameborn met the charge with blazing weapons and a silence carved by resolve. They had trained for this, bled for this. And yet, the moment the Hollowborn set foot on sacred ground, the world tilted.
