The cold morning wind blew across the fields south of Azalith, carrying the scent of burnt earth and extinguished magic.
The horizon still shimmered with the remnants of the collapse—fragments of pure mana dissolving in the air like luminous ashes.
Among the hills, hundreds of people huddled under makeshift tents, hastily conjured by support mages and clerics.
It was the evacuation point.
The last refuge of those who had survived.
Kael walked in silence, his black cloak still stained from battle.
Umbra hovered beside him, silent, observing the expressions of the people as they passed—tired, dirty faces, but alive.
Some recognized him, but looked away. Others simply followed him with a silent reverence, as if they instinctively knew they owed him their lives.
"They still think it's the end of the world," Umbra murmured.
Kael didn't answer.
He just watched.
Between the rows of tents, a familiar voice called out to him:
"KAEL!"
He turned quickly.
