The wind howled through the scorched arches of the once-hallowed chamber, now reduced to fractured stone and flickering remnants of sigils that no longer held meaning. The battle had ended—but nothing felt victorious.
They left the ruins in silence.
East had been the last to emerge, his form supported between Professor Cedric and Ilyra. His cloak was torn, bloodied, the edges scorched from the backlash of the sealing ritual. Though his eyes were open, they were unfocused—haunted. A fine network of dark veins now traced up his neck, disappearing beneath his jawline, pulsing faintly as if something still writhed just beneath his skin.
Frost's fate remained uncertain. What little was left of him had been drawn into the obsidian stone, now sealed in a runic prism and bound to Ilyra's care. The others had agreed: it could not be destroyed, only hidden, and only by someone strong enough to resist its call.
