But the reality before me makes that impossible.
My shockwave of power swept out in all directions. The fires that were devouring the village are extinguished, leaving smoldering timbers and plumes of gray smoke.
Andbodies.
So many dead because of the Fellborn. Neighbors, friends . . . people I grew up with now lying motionless in the dirt, twisted in ways that make my stomach lurch. Blood streaks the ground in dark, congealing pools.
I clamp a hand over my mouth, bile threatening to rise.
Not a single shadow creature remains. They’ve vanished, as if they never existed. But the carnage is undeniable proof of what really happened here.
My mind spins with the horror of it.
“Amara . . . ” Lyra’s voice is uncertain.
I spot her behind a splintered wagon. She rises on shaky legs, her gaze fixed on me, she is sobbing between gasps. My own vision swims, and I blink tears away, feeling them burn their way down my cheeks.
Gods, my body is screaming.My muscles feel like lead, my head spinning with dizziness and nausea.
It all converges on me: grief, horror.
I am literally kneeling in the epicenter of destruction.
“Ly,” I croak, my voice nothing more than a whisper.
My hands shake as I push myself upright, unsteady on my feet. I’m utterly spent.
She takes a tentative step forward, then another, until she’s standing over me, her expression a knot of shock and sorrow.
“You . . . destroyed them, you saved so many . . . ” Lyra’s voice wavers as she looks around at the devastation, at the hush that hangs over the village.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out.
For what? For surviving? For not saving everyone? For unleashing something I don’t understand?
She kneels beside me, gently touching my shoulder. I can’t meet her eyes.
My skin tingles, the remnants of raw magics still buzzing under the surface—like an angry swarm of bees with nowhere to go. Nausea rolls in my gut, and I sway.
Lyra’s grip tightens. “Careful,” she whispers. “You’re hurt—we’ll . . . we’ll figure it out.”
I’m swept by another wave of dizziness and intense exhaustion. The world tilts and I clutch Lyra’s arm.
“Amara?” she says urgently. “Amara! Your nose is bleeding!”
She wipes at my face with the sleep of her shirt.
“J-Just . . . need . . . ” My words blur, my head lolling forward.
In the haze of grief and despair, I see an image—beyond the ruins and stunned faces of those who survived.
Two men step from swirling purple light—as if the night split to let them through.
The first is older, he moves with strength and power beneath a worn cloak. His hair, streaked with gray at the temples, frames a face that looks like it was carved by decades of conflict. A gnarled staff is clenched in his fist, arcane markings swirling along its length. In his eyes, I glimpse both fatigue and unwavering purpose.
The second man is younger, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in dark leathers, the fabric pulled taut across muscles that move with a warrior’s grace. Even as I fade, something about him catches my breath.
His features are impossibly striking—sharp cheekbones, a chiseled jaw, and lips that part slightly as he surveys the devastation.
