The air inside the sanctuary trembled with unseen tension.
It wasn't just magic—it was a presence. A pressure pressing against every stone wall, seeping through the cracks like black smoke. The wards crackled and flickered, their integrity fraying at the edges as if something ancient and foul was trying to claw its way through reality itself.
Aria stood in the center of the Flame Heart chamber, her skin glowing faintly with emberlight, the crown's energy now thrumming at her core like a heartbeat that wasn't hers alone. Rowan stood at her side, his sword drawn—not the ceremonial one he carried in council, but the obsidian-bladed fang gifted by his fallen commander. It whispered danger with every breath.
The Whisperer had entered.
Not through doors. Not with sound.
She simply appeared.
