The path beyond the crypt stretched into the wilderness, uneven stone giving way to hardened earth. The remnants of the Spire loomed behind them, silent yet heavy with the weight of what had transpired.
Camelia didn't look back—she wouldn't look back. The cycle had resisted them, but they had carved their own path, forced fate into fragmentation.
Atherion walked ahead, his blade still drawn despite the absence of immediate danger. His posture was rigid, alert, prepared for whatever came next.
Sylvara kept Morgath restrained, her grip firm, though her stance had loosened—her exhaustion barely masked beneath her sharp movements.
The night air carried a strange stillness, disturbed only by the occasional rustling of the wind through the barren trees. Something was watching.
Not a creature, not an enemy—something bigger. The cycle itself was aware.
Camelia clenched her fists. She could still feel the shards, the way their energy refused to fade.
