The descent from the cleansed sanctum was a stark contrast to their ascent. The air, once thick with the stench of corruption, now carried the crisp scent of rain-washed stone and the faint, earthy aroma of burgeoning life. The oppressive silence had been replaced by the gentle murmur of wind whispering through the restored pillars and the distant chirping of unseen birds. Yet, the pallor of exhaustion clung to the companions like a shroud, a tangible reminder of the battle fought and the price paid.
Elara cradled her right hand, the etched runes beneath her palm throbbing with a dull, persistent ache. The Shard of Aetherion, now dimmed to a soft, internal luminescence, rested against her belt, its warmth a small comfort against the deeper chill that had settled within her. The memories of the rite—the searing pain, the feeling of something vital being drawn from her, the echoing silence that followed—were still vivid, a raw wound in her mind.
