The storm had not passed.
It only changed shape.
Elara felt it in the marrow of her bones the moment she stepped onto the obsidian ridge overlooking the ruined valley. The sky churned with bruised colors—deep violet clashing with gold, fractured lightning threading through clouds that looked as though they were bleeding. Below, the remnants of the Celestial Citadel lay in ruins, its once-radiant pillars now broken ribs jutting from the corpse of the earth.
Kael stood ahead of her, his silhouette carved in sharp angles against the wind. His cloak snapped like a dark banner behind him, hair whipping wild as if the storm itself refused to let him go. For a moment, he didn't turn. Didn't breathe. Didn't move.
He looked like a man carved from prophecy and punishment.
Like someone standing at the edge of an irreversible truth.
Elara's throat tightened. "Kael," she called, the name slipping from her lips as if she feared it would shatter.
He finally turned.
Gods. His eyes.
