Villain POV — Unknown
The surge did not need to be seen.
It was felt.
It moved beneath the earth like a second heartbeat.
Through wards.
Through old roots.
Through blood.
Ancient magic does not announce itself.
It remembers.
And tonight—
It remembered her.
I stood alone in the observatory chamber when the tremor passed through the stone floor. The glass dome above reflected nothing but clouded night, but the air itself shimmered faintly, vibrating with residual starlight.
So.
The Heir lives.
Not dormant.
Not rumored.
Awake.
The hunters who survived arrived an hour later.
They did not knock.
They were admitted.
Two were carried. One missing an arm. Another blinded by light that had burned straight through enchanted lenses.
Silver armor warped.
Containment sigils cracked.
Failure written into every staggered breath.
I listened.
I asked no questions at first.
They spoke anyway.
"She didn't chant—"
"It wasn't controlled—"
"The mark—"
The mark.
Interesting.
