The night tasted like ash and fury.
Veyra stood barefoot at the edge of the cliff, the wind thrashing her cloak against her legs as if the skies themselves mourned. Below her, the forest bowed in silence, shadows swallowing the trees whole. Jon was alive—but barely. His wounds, carved by Nyros' wrath, had turned her blood to ice. She had never heard him scream like that. Not even during the war with the Obsidian Fang.
She could still see his face as he was carried back to Nightveil—bruised, bloodied, breath shallow. She had touched his broken chest, her hands trembling, and whispered his name over and over until her voice gave out. That had been the last crack in her restraint.
Now, she burned.
There were no tears left. Only vengeance. Only fire.
The full moon had risen high, pregnant with ancient light, silver bleeding through the dark clouds. It called to her, louder than it ever had before. Not a whisper. A command.
She dropped her cloak, letting the cold embrace her. She was marke
