One month later.
The world… breathed.
Not just like an exhale—but like the first breath after drowning.
Sanctum was gone. The regime, the illusions, the curse of forced power—it was all over.
And with it, something strange took root.
Freedom.
Not the kind people sang about or stitched into banners. The real kind. The quiet kind. The terrifying kind.
Some people cried with joy the day their powers vanished—when the elements stopped answering, when the lightning faded from their fingertips, when the voices in their heads went silent. They smiled. Laughed. Hugged each other like they'd been unshackled.
But not everyone felt the same.
Some raged. Some wept. Some screamed at the sky, fists clenched, desperate for fire, for control, for that goddamn sense of purpose they'd been forced to wrap their identities around.
Me?
I sat on a rooftop with Azriel, legs curled under me, and watched the stars finally shine without competition from magic.
We didn't say much that night.
