They flew in silence.
Thae'Zirak carried Argolaith and Kaelred on his back, his wings slicing through the air with swift, steady beats. Malakar rode the shadows, drifting like mist along the winds, while Naruul darted beneath them with unnatural grace—six legs poised midair, wings folding and unfolding in slow rhythm.
Below, the storm churned in slow spirals, flickering with the dying glow of something ancient and alchemical.
The field was closer than it looked.
And when they landed…
Everything was still.
The blast zone was massive.
Charred earth stretched in all directions, scorched in a near-perfect ring. Trees at the outer edge had been bent backward, bark flayed from their trunks. Grass had been turned to ash. The smell of ozone and bitter herbs hung in the air, thick and pungent.
At the center of the crater lay a single stone slab.
No debris. No remnants of a cauldron or camp.
