He woke to silence so heavy it could have been stone.

The Vale was no longer a battlefield. It was a cathedral — rebuilt by something ancient and wrong. The shattered pillars had straightened themselves, fused from obsidian veins that pulsed faintly beneath his feet. The air shimmered, thick with dust and scent of burnt magic. Every breath felt like drawing glass into his lungs.

Draven rose slowly, every muscle screaming. The last thing he remembered was Elaria’s voice— her hand shoving ...