The morning after the goddess vanished, the world refused to wake.
Dawn came pale and slow, a hesitant shimmer through the mist — as though the sun itself feared what it might find.
Aria lay on the edge of the ravine, the scent of rain and ash thick in the air. Her body was trembling again, not from cold but from the echoes of something vast still moving inside her. Her skin glowed faintly beneath the light — not gold, not silver, but a quiet, impossible hue between them.
Damian knelt beside her, exhaustion painting his face in shades of worry. He hadn't slept since the battle. His hands were raw, still stained with her blood, and yet he refused to let her out of reach.
"Breathe," he whispered. "You're still here."
Aria opened her eyes. They weren't the same.
The blue that had once shimmered like a winter sky was now threaded with shadows of violet — the color of twilight, where day and night meet and refuse to yield.
"I can hear them," she said softly.
Damian frowned. "Who?"
