The storm had not passed.
The skies bled red across the entire horizon, a wound that stretched from the Capital Tombs to the distant mountains. The torn remnants of reality above them remained stretched open like a gaping maw that refused to close. The Gate was still ajar—and the eye behind it pulsed with slow, deliberate blinks, as if watching… waiting… *learning*.
Valerian stood with his back to the Gate, his cloak fluttering in the unnatural winds that carried whispers of dead languages. His body trembled—not from weakness, but from the remnants of the force he had just expelled. Umbra's essence had not gone quietly. It clawed at his soul even now, like a ghost resentful of its banishment, leaving scratches of darkness across his consciousness.
