The moment the truth settled—when we both felt the certainty pulse from that scale—our feet moved.
I bolted forward, wind whipping past my face, my magicore instinctively funneling energy to my legs. Fafnir was already beside me, his stride long, his presence like a streak of lightning through the fractured landscape. No words. No signal. Just motion.
Behind us, we heard the sudden shout of confusion.
"What the—?!"
"They're gone!"
"Wait—hey!"
The Black Gale scrambled to catch up, but we didn't slow. Couldn't. The urgency burned too hot.
The trees blurred, the cracked stones cracked harder under our weight. The dead forest gave way to broken cliffs, and still we ran—bounding over rock and ravine, guided by a thread of instinct and memory.
"Do you feel it?" Fafnir's voice echoed in my mind, sharpened by wind and fury. "It's not just the scale. There's a pull now… eastward. I think it's him."
