The air was thick with anticipation, heavy with the residue of what had come before and the silent promise of what was yet to unfold. Selara leaned against the shattered remnants of the old Blackclaw gate, silver veins tracing faintly along her arms as her chest rose and fell in measured breaths. Each inhale carried the scent of scorched earth, wildflowers crushed beneath hurried steps, and the metallic tang of spilled blood a symphony of reminders that the world was not gentle, that peace was fleeting, and that power, in its rawest form, demanded both respect and mastery.
