The sky was still burning.

  Isolde’s breath came in shallow bursts as she tried to push herself upright. Her limbs trembled, her body lightheaded from the massive drain of Vaylora. She reached for the wind again—but it no longer obeyed her with the ease it had moments before. The air felt thick, heavy, reluctant. Still, she wasn’t finished.

  The first of the reanimated ghouls clawed their way across the rooftops, eyes glowing with necrotic flame. Isolde drew in a ragged breath, lifted one hand, and sent out a compressed burst of wind. It didn’t explode—it sliced. The ghoul’s head separated cleanly from its shoulders.

  She smirked, half-delirious, and muttered under her breath, "Precision would do."

  A second and third ghoul came at her. She slid across the tiles, feet barely touching the surface, carried by narrow cushions of wind pressure. Every motion was a glide, a dart, a flicker—the Saintess turned into a phantom of motion. Her hair whipped around her face, her movements smooth and inhuman. Each strike was the perfect marriage of exhaustion and mastery; she couldn’t overpower the horde, but she could outmaneuver them.

  *****

  High above, Eryndor stood upon the translucent surface of Morgan’s Vaylora-forged platform. The air vibrated under his boots, alive with the pulse of concentrated power. He looked from the blinding aura where Selene and Morgan were still chanting to the black swarm spilling across the sky. His heart hammered—not from fear, but from awe. Even after everything he’d seen tonight, he had never imagined power that felt so alive.

  Lyssara’s voice cut through the rising wind, sharp and steady. “You can fly, right?”

  Eryndor blinked. “Not yet.”

  Lyssara gave a half-smile, and then a crack split the night as she launched herself skyward. A sonic boom echoed outward, her body turning into a streak of gold and red light as she vanished into the sky. Moments later, the darkness erupted. A chain of radiant detonations bloomed like miniature suns, each flaring, collapsing, and flaring again—flame and lightning braided into luminous spheres that devoured the monsters whole.

  Eryndor raised his arm to shield his face, the heat biting his skin. “Sunfire magic,” he muttered, eyes wide with a mixture of respect and disbelief.

  But even her brilliance wasn’t enough. Through the burning clouds, two of the monstrous fliers broke through—massive shadows with wings like tattered sails, their riders gripping jagged bone blades slick with dark ichor.

  He grit his teeth and brought both hands together. One glyph flared to life in his left palm—Fire. Another shimmered in his right—Wind. He thrust them forward, merging the spells midair.

  A massive serpent of flame and air burst into existence, coiling across the night sky. Its body twisted and turned, scales flickering between heat and gale, its roar echoing with divine fury. The sky warped under its passage.

  The beasts shrieked in return, diving to meet it—but before they could evade, the serpent coiled inward, compressing its own form, and detonated in a flash of blinding light.

  The explosion rolled across the heavens, scattering ash and heat like a storm of fireflies.

  Eryndor steadied himself, his breath ragged. For a moment, he thought it was over—until the smoke parted.

  Two silhouettes dove from the haze and landed soundlessly on the glowing platform. They were not beasts. They were not human. Their veins pulsed black like molten tar, eyes glowing faintly violet in the starlight.

  Kindred.

  Eryndor steadied his stance, eyes fixed on the two Kindred now crouched before him. Their bodies twitched with feral precision—muscles shifting under skin too tight, too pale. He exhaled, centering himself, waiting for their charge.

  They moved faster than he expected, but not toward him. They sprinted past.

  For a single heartbeat, confusion froze him—then realization struck cold. They weren’t after him. Their eyes were locked on the two figures still chanting at the center of the platform—Selene and Morgan, radiant and oblivious within their spiral of power.

  Eryndor cursed under his breath and thrust both hands forward. The air bent to his will, a violent gale erupting from his palms. The gust slammed into the Kindred midstride, sending them tumbling across the Vaylora platform.

  They didn’t fall. They rolled, caught themselves, and rose with animal grace. Eryndor’s frown deepened. That burst of wind had enough force to hurl a human halfway across the capital. For these two to withstand it so easily...

  The Kindred turned their gazes toward him at last, their jaws unhinging slightly, black ichor seeping from the corners of their mouths. Eryndor squared his shoulders.

  “You finally see me as a threat, huh?”

  Their reply came in perfect unison—but it wasn’t their voice. It was one voice, layered and distant, echoing through their throats like a curse made manifest.

  “No,” it said. “You’re not a threat… just a nuisance.”

  The words made the air vibrate. Then they moved.

  Eryndor threw up a dome of wind, the barrier swirling with cutting currents, but the Kindred burst through it like glass. The shockwave sent him staggering back. He dove to the side, rolling across the glowing surface as their claws scraped where his chest had been an instant before.

  They called him pathetic. The insult rang hollow against the roar in his ears.

  They struck again, fast and relentless. Eryndor blocked one blow with a blast of fire, pivoted around another, and ducked under the third. His footwork was clumsy at first, his reactions desperate—but with every dodge, every close call, something shifted. His breathing synced with the wind. The air stopped resisting him and began to listen.

  He caught the rhythm. The Kindred lunged in tandem, claws aimed for his throat. Eryndor thrust downward—wind and fire bursting beneath his boots. His body blurred, rising in a corkscrew of flame as he slipped past their attack.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  When he landed, the Kindred spun wildly, disoriented by his speed. He smiled, heat shimmering around him.

  “You’re way slower than Aelun,” he said.

  Raising his arms, he drew them apart as though pulling invisible strings. Twin glyphs flared to life before his palms—rings of light spinning in mirrored symmetry. Fire gathered in one, wind in the other, their power growing as he moved.

  Even as he traced the shapes in the air, the Kindred attacked again. Eryndor kept moving—dodging, ducking, letting their claws slice through the spaces where he had been a heartbeat before. Each evasion added another stroke to his spell. The glowing lines of the forming glyphs trailed behind him like ribbons of flame and air.

  They lunged together—one high, one low. Eryndor twisted between them, spinning with the current he had built around himself. The motion carried a burst of crosswind that knocked their timing off by a fraction of a second—just enough.

  The two Kindred collided against each other with a thunderous crack of bone and rage. For an instant, they were tangled and exposed.

  Eryndor’s movements slowed. The glyphs before his hands pulsed, complete.

  He drew them together. Fire shaped into the curve of a bow, wind stretched into the form of an arrow.

  He exhaled, every motion calm and deliberate now.

  The Kindred looked up just as he pulled the string of flame taut.

  The arrow screamed as it launched—pure fire and wind fused into one. It struck them, and the world erupted in a blinding column of light. The explosion devoured both creatures. They were reduced to ash and silence.

  Eryndor lowered his hands slowly, the bow dissolving into fading embers. His pulse thundered in his ears, his breathing even. The storm above echoed his heartbeat.

  He was not as seasoned as the other Inquisitors.

  Not as strong as Isolde.

  Not as wise as Aelun.

  Not a leader like Darius.

  He knew that. He knew he was still the weak link—the one they all had to worry about, the one still chasing their shadows. But he also knew something else: he could catch up.

  Step by step. Spell by spell.

  Eryndor exhaled and let the storm’s warmth wash over him.

  For the first time, he believed he could belong among them.

  He slumped to the floor of the glowing platform, exhaling hard. His legs trembled, his pulse still thrumming from the effort. The bow spell had taken more out of him than he expected—his head rang from the strain of holding two elements in perfect harmony. Stealing the idea from Lyssara. Though at the moment it was just a poor, budding attempt at forming something like her Sunfire.

  He dropped onto his backside and stared up at the storm above, the flickering embers drifting past like dying fireflies.

  “That was the first time I’ve ever tried something like that,” he muttered. “Feels like I wrestled the wind itself.”

  A familiar boom sounded behind him. Lyssara landed lightly on the edge of the platform, her boots kicking up a swirl of sparks. She crossed her arms, a grin cutting through the soot on her face.

  “Not bad,” she said. “I caught the end of it. You almost looked like you knew what you were doing.”

  Eryndor snorted and looked toward the horizon where she’d been fighting. All he could see was drifting ash, glowing faintly red in the distance. “Almost?”

  She shrugged. “You’re still standing. That’s more than most tonight.”

  A voice echoed faintly through the air—Isolde’s, carried by the wind.

  “Is everyone up there still alive?”

  Eryndor leaned forward and shouted back, his voice hoarse. “We’re fine! Don’t worry about us!”

  Lyssara exhaled slowly, scanning the chaotic sprawl of the burning capital below. “This night won’t end until we find whoever’s pulling the strings,” she said. “And we can’t do that with half the city still crawling with corpses.”

  Eryndor rubbed his neck, wincing. “Even if we do find them, what’s stopping them from running before we can reach them?”

  The air above them cracked—once, twice—then a thunderclap split the sky.

  Lightning tore through the clouds and struck the platform in a flash of gold.

  When the light faded, a man stood where it hit.

  He was tall—taller than Eryndor by a full head—with the build of a veteran soldier rather than a priest. His golden hair floated around him like it was caught in a storm. His clothes were leather and steel, not robes, though trimmed in white and gold, the symbol of the Church etched across his chest.

  Saint Lucen the Wrathful.

  He rolled his shoulders once, cracked his neck, and spoke in a deep, rasping voice that carried the weight of thunder.

  “They won’t be able to run from me,” he said. “Just point the way, Meme.”

  At the sound of that nickname, Selene turned from the center of the platform. The glow around her and Morgan dimmed as their chanting finally ceased. Selene’s face lit with a smile brighter than the sun itself when she looked at Lucen.

  Eryndor caught that look—pure, unguarded warmth—and sighed quietly to himself. "Darius is going to have a hell of a time."

  Lyssara stepped forward and bowed low. “High Saint Lucen,” she said formally, “and Lady Selene LeFaye, I am Lyssara Caelthorne, sworn guardian to Princess Seraphine. It’s an honor to stand with you.”

  Selene looked at her and felt the burning of her pendant. This was the one Cassian had mentioned. She nodded at the young Caelthorne. Once this was over, they would have much to talk about.

  Lucen looked down from his height, his lightning blue eyes flicking toward Isolde, who had landed nearby, still catching her breath.

  “I felt your power from two towns away,” he said. “Good to see you finally stopped hiding what you are, Soso.”

  Isolde gave him a faint, weary smile. “Lucy, you look like shit. And you took your time getting here.”

  Lucen chuckled. “Had to let you shine first.”

  Selene stepped closer, brushing wind-tossed hair from her face. “We were waiting on you. You’ll want to follow the light once it begins.”

  Eryndor frowned, glancing between her and Morgan. “What exactly were you two doing up here, anyway?”

  Selene exchanged a look with her grandmother. “She realized it was a necromancer as soon as she saw the city,” she said. “So we’re performing a mass location and targeting spell.”

  Morgan smirked faintly, eyes still glowing with aquamarine light. “Selene’s cognitive capacity far exceeds mine. She can process the field’s feedback faster than I can.”

  Selene shook her head. “But Grandmother’s Vaylora output still dwarfs mine.” Her lips quivered upward. “For now.”

  Morgan stepped forward, lifting her hands. “Enough flattery. Let’s finish this.”

  All that is concealed, bath in my light.

  All that is observed, rejoice in my sight.

  Never seen, never felt

  Never hidden, never near

  “Omnipresence…” Morgan whispered.

  The platform thrummed beneath them. The air thickened until it hummed with energy. Threads of light—pure Vaylora—spread outward from Morgan’s palms, expanding like a vast web over the entire capital and beyond. The others shielded their eyes as the night was drowned in green and crimson brilliance.

  Far below, in the streets, pinpricks of green light marked friends and allies, scattered across the city like constellations. Among them, clusters of red light burned brighter—living enemies, ghouls, undead, or pockets of malice.

  Then, on the far horizon, a mass of red shimmered like a heart beating in the dark—hundreds of smaller lights circling a single, immense one.

  Selene’s gaze fixed on it, her expression sharpening into something cold and certain.

  “Found you…” she whispered.