The blizzard had subsided, leaving behind a landscape of jagged, crystalline silence. The cabin was a ruin, its walls splintered by the claws of the Soul-Hounds and the raw, kinetic output of Gwen's own fracturing magic. Outside, the air was brittle, sharp enough to cut the lungs, but the atmosphere inside the small party was far more dangerous.
Gwen walked at the center of the trio, a prisoner in her own company. Her solar spark, once a roaring bonfire of potential, felt like a dying ember in her gut. The exhaustion of the escape, the mental toll of the betrayal, and the agonizing tether to Lucien's decaying life-force had reduced her to a shell of her former self.
Kaelen led the way, his back stiff, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He didn't look at her. He didn't speak. He moved with the terrifying, rhythmic efficiency of a man who had stripped away his conscience to serve a higher, colder purpose.
