"The beast accepts," she said, voice hushed yet carrying along the medicinal hush that followed dissolution of magic. "So must we."
Each syllable released tension from those around her. Elders lowered their staffs. Murmured blessings slid across lips. High above, lantern-moths resumed their slow orbit, resuming a patrol interrupted by marvel.
Velthiri's attention slid past Sylara to the figure emerging with deliberate quiet from between two lichen pillars. Draven—Dravis, to any still clinging to the alias—appeared as though carved out of the dusk, coat dark against moss, blades sheathed but presence razor-keen. He approached with unhurried steps, pausing only when he reached the ripple line where Sylara's and the Guardian's conjoined aura brushed the world. His fingertips twitched—tiny calibration adjusting his own field so the overlapping energies did not clash.
