Luna's POV
The silence after the storm always smells like a lie.
The air, still hot from the infernal fire, carried particles of ash that settled on my eyelashes like dirty snow. Aria lay on the ground, her fingers intertwined with Ignis's in a gesture so tender that it hurt to watch. The young woman's divine energy still shone in her veins, but now it was a faint glow, like the last spark of a dying campfire. She had used her essence as fuel for the ritual, turning her own body into a bridge between the sacred and the profane. How long does she have left?, I wondered, even though I already knew the answer: Saints always burn quickly.
"Luna, is the seal safe?" Ignis's voice pulled me from my thoughts.
