The dawn light spilled over the Black Spire, painting the ashen plains in hues of gold and amber. Liam stood at the edge of the shattered battlefield, the transformed Emberheart cradled in his palm. Its once-chaotic flame had settled into a tranquil pulse, the crystal clear and cool to the touch, like ice forged from starlight. Yet the Veil above them hung like a tattered tapestry, threads of twilight unraveling into voids of nothingness. The victory over Veyra had been a pyre of hope—bright, but fleeting.
Elena approached, her boots crunching over glassy stone. "The Spire's energy is fading," she said, her voice barely rising above the wind's mournful whistle. "Whatever magic Veyra awakened here is gone. But the Veil… it's still bleeding." She pointed to the horizon, where streaks of crimson bled through the sky like open wounds.
