The wind had changed.

It no longer carried the acrid burn of battle, but the metallic scent of something new — colder, older, alive in a way that made the air taste wrong.

Elaria stirred. Her body throbbed from crown to heel, but she was breathing. Barely. The sky above her was no longer the deep bruised red of war but a wan, colorless gray — dawn filtered through veils of dust.

Her hands were scraped raw. Her voice when it came was hoarse.

“Draven…”

Only silence answered.

She ...