The night air hung thick with tension, as if the moon itself held its breath.

Aria stood at the edge of the glade, her fingers tracing the ancient runes carved into the monolith at the forest's heart. The glowing etchings pulsed faintly beneath her touch, reacting to the thread of power still humming through her veins. She wasn’t sure if the whispers were in her mind or bleeding from the stone.

Vaelora.

The name had come to her in a dream—but it hadn’t felt like a dream. More like a ...