Smoke. Ash. Pain.
The world came back to Rian slowly, like a tide that had forgotten how to rise. The first thing he registered was the sting—sharp and raw—arching from his left shoulder down to his ribcage. His body screamed in protest as he stirred, groaning softly, face half-buried in brittle straw and soot. Above him, beams sagged under their own weight, charred black, the roof gaping open like a wound. A wind blew through it, carrying the faint reek of scorched timber and blood.
Rian blinked against the dry sting in his eyes. The last thing he remembered—before the explosion—was the stone glowing in Yara's hand. And the Mage, a wreck of a man, bellowing as he unleashed something wild and furious. Then came the light. Then the fire.
Panic surged through him like a second burn.
Yara.
