The gates of the inner sanctum sealed with a sound like finality stone grinding against stone, reinforced with layers of ancient enchantments and burning sigils that flared gold for a moment, then faded into silence. The air inside was cold, the kind of cold born from trauma rather than temperature. Not a chill of weather, but of the soul.
Enara leaned against the wall, breath ragged, heart pounding. Her magic pulsed weakly beneath her skin, spent and fragile, like a flame too long pushed against the wind. Her arm still burned where the spear had grazed her earlier, and her body ached in ways that went far beyond the physical.
But she was alive.
So was Daena. And her mothers. And at least some of their people.
That had to count for something.
She slid down the wall to the floor, shadows curling gently around her like a protective cocoon. It wasn't fear. Not exactly. But something in her had been cracked open something raw and vulnerable, a truth she wasn't quite ready to name.
