The sound of trees snapping broke the silence of the hillside.
Sylphie strode ahead, her white cloak stained with earth and dried blood, her eyes fixed on the distant line of Azalith's walls. The sun was barely rising, filtering coppery hues through the smoke that shrouded the sky. The wind carried the scent of ash and iron—and something else. Burnt mana.
Behind her, Irelia kept pace, sword slung over her shoulder, her steps firm on the sodden mud. Amelia followed close behind, holding her staff in both hands, and the princess, shrouded in a simple cloak, was guided by a nearly invisible barrier of light.
Nothing moved beyond them. No sound of life.
But the forest seemed to watch.
The path to Azalith had been devastated. Charred trees rose like black columns, and the cracked ground exhaled mana vapor. Through the cracks, threads of blue light pulsed—remnants of the energy drained during the attack.
Sylphie paused for a moment atop a rise.
