The temple shuddered.
It was subtle—like the first crack in a dam holding back an ocean. To ordinary senses, it would have felt like nothing more than a distant tremor, easily dismissed. But to the five leaders, it was unmistakable. A pulse of power, ancient and untamed, rippled outward in waves, threading through the stones beneath their feet and the air around them, stirring the essence that slumbered deep within the citadel's bones.
Seraphiel's wings snapped open, feathers shimmering with celestial radiance, each one bristling with tension. Her sharp intake of breath echoed like a prayer unspoken, her golden eyes wide with sudden clarity. "It has begun," she whispered, as if naming it aloud gave the moment weight.
Zerathiel was on his feet in an instant, hand on his blade, while Gorak sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring.
"Tribulation," Elandor whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of power.
