The Citadel was quiet, the stillness heavy with the weight of loss. Elara's sacrifice had saved the world, but the cost had left a deep void in the hearts of those who had fought beside her. The sun had risen, casting its golden light over the remnants of the battlefield, but the usual warmth of a new day felt hollow, as if the world itself was mourning the fallen Guardian.
Thorne stood at the edge of the Citadel's highest tower, overlooking the horizon. The wind tugged at his cloak, but he didn't feel the cold. His thoughts were miles away, lingering on memories of Elara—the way she had laughed, the fire in her eyes when she faced down impossible odds, the quiet moments they had shared in the rare peace between battles.
"Thorne."
The voice was soft, hesitant. He turned to see Morgana standing behind him, her face pale but resolute. She looked as if she had aged years in the past few hours. Her usual fierce demeanor was tempered by the grief they all shared.
