The fire had died.
Not the one that scorched the throne room, nor the magic that had twisted around her soul like a noose—no, this was something else. Something deeper.
A stillness.
A quiet that hadn't existed minutes ago.
Malvoria knelt beside Elysia, her arms still tight around her waist, one hand brushing damp silver strands from her face.
She hadn't stopped touching her since she'd woken up, afraid that if she let go, it would all unravel again that Elysia would slip through her fingers like smoke and memory.
But there was no denying it.
Elysia was alive.
And yet… something about her wasn't the same.
Not just the glow in her eyes. Not just the violet shimmer that still pulsed faintly around her skin like an afterimage of lightning. Her magic, her presence was different.
Malvoria could feel it as plainly as heat.
It wasn't red anymore.
It wasn't even hers, not entirely.
