The Ashbound camp glowed with torches, their flames flickering against the canyon walls. For the first time in days, silence held—not the silence of fear, but of preparation.
Elira sat by the fire, the crown hovering faintly above her chest. Its pulse was softer now, less insistent, as if waiting. She traced the mark on her wrist, remembering Kael's words, his oath. The doubt had not vanished, but it no longer ruled her.
Kael approached, blade sheathed, his steps steady. "They're ready," he said. "Not polished, not perfect—but ready to fight."
Elira nodded. "We don't need perfection. We need resolve."
For a moment, they stood together in the firelight, the weight of war pressing but not yet crushing. The interlude was brief, but it was theirs—a pause before the storm.
Marlic's Counter‑Attack
Far across the valley, smoke surged like a tide. Marlic stood at its center, ember eyes blazing, his army gathered tighter than before. The Smokebound no longer whispered—they roared, their forms solid, weapons forged from shadow itself.
Marlic raised his hand, shadow coiling into a spear. "She thinks fire will save her. She thinks loyalty will shield her. But fire burns out. Loyalty breaks. And shadow endures."
The Smokebound roared in answer, their voices shaking the ruins.
Marlic's laughter echoed, sharp and cruel. "We march tonight. Not as whispers. As war. Let the Flamebearer see what shadow truly is."
Smoke surged outward, swallowing the valley. The counter‑attack had begun.