The flames had died down. The screaming had stopped. But the silence that replaced it was far worse.
Kael sat on the steps of a crumbled fountain, his forearms resting on his knees, his hands stained with dust, sweat, and faint streaks of dried mana-burn.
The plaza around them—once a kaleidoscope of festival colors and life—was now a graveyard of broken stone and shattered relics. The air, thick with the scent of ozone and fear, still hummed with residual, corrupted magic.
He wasn't physically injured, but he felt bruised on a deeper level, his mind replaying the sight of ordinary people turning into mindless, feral monsters.
Theo stood nearby, tossing a faintly glowing mana stone between his hands, his expression as unreadable as ever, his eyes scanning the aftermath.
Jarik leaned against a shattered lamppost, arms crossed, his usual cocky grin nowhere to be found.
