EMMA'S POV
The road stretched endlessly, pale sunlight slicing through clouds in uneven streaks. Aren's boots scuffed the gravel, each step echoing softly, swallowed almost immediately by the wind. The ruins were behind him now, swallowed by distance, yet their memory clung to him like a shadow he could not shake.
Every so often, he paused at a rise, letting his eyes sweep the horizon. Nothing moved but the wind and the occasional bird, but he could feel it—the weight of consequence trailing him like smoke. The charm in his pocket burned gently against his palm, a quiet reminder of Lysa, of the fragile hope he had promised to protect.
He had chosen this path, yet each step carried a weight heavier than the last. Some storms were not fought with steel but with silence and distance. And this storm, he realized, was not just around him—it was inside him.
