The crypt was breaking apart, the weight of its history splintering beneath them. Camelia forced herself forward, her lungs burning from exertion, but there was no time for hesitation.
The portal had collapsed, the connection between the shards severed, and yet the world was already shifting in response.
The distant hum of magic still pulsed beneath her skin, threading through the ruins as if searching for something it had lost. The cycle wasn't dead—it was wounded, resisting its own fragmentation, trying to rebind itself in ways that none of them yet understood.
Atherion strode ahead, blade still drawn, his stance tense despite the immediate danger having passed.
"We need to get moving," he said, voice firm but quieter than usual. He wasn't just talking about leaving the crypt—he meant leaving everything behind before the consequences caught up to them.
