The battle with the Council had ended, but the sky above refused to settle.
Even now, the stars pulsed in arrhythmic patterns—like the heart of reality was still recovering from a seizure.
The air buzzed.
Magic felt raw.
Unshaped.
Valerian stood at the edge of a newly split ravine, watching rivers of violet starlight surge beneath the cracked earth. His blade—reborn from fragments of his will and Lira's stolen timelines—rested across his back. But for once, he didn't reach for it.
Not because he didn't sense danger.
But because Kael hadn't said a word in hours.
Behind him, camp had been hastily reformed atop a cliff overlooking the battlefield. Selene was rebuilding the runic lattice that anchored this fragment of realm to a survivable frequency. Lira patrolled the edge of reality, scouting potential dimensional breaches. Seraphina stood guard atop a floating shard of obsidian, her wings folded like a mourning veil.
And Kael?
He sat by himself.
Back to the fire.
