Eldur's POV
The battlefield was silent, like the aftermath of a storm. Smoke still curled into the sky. The scent of blood and ash clung to the air like an unwelcome blanket.
I stood over the scorched earth where Margaret had vanished, chest heaving, fists clenched, silver eyes narrowed.
She was gone… but not dead.
Not yet.
The rage inside me pulsed like a second heartbeat. My hands trembled, not from exhaustion—but from restraint.
She was still out there. And Nova… Nova was still lost to me. Trapped. Hexed. Unconscious, pale, and still as death in that bed back at the castle.
And I had to get her back.
I turned to face the others. They were watching me—some cautiously, some with concern, some with unspoken understanding.
I met my father's eyes first. Calm. Steady. As always.
But I knew that look. He knew what I was about to say. He was just waiting for me to say it.
"She's not dead," I growled. "She's still out there. And we need her ashes."
