Morning came over a kingdom holding its breath.
Owen hadn't slept. The quarters they'd given him—a sparse room in the palace's guest wing, clearly unused for months—held a bed he hadn't touched, a window he'd stood at all night, watching the wounded sky shift through shades of red and purple.
Below, Drak'thar stirred. Not with the vibrant energy he remembered from the first dungeon's visions, but with the grim purpose of a fortress preparing for siege. Dragons moved in disciplined formations. Supplies were being stockpiled near the central plaza. Medics checked equipment that had clearly been used too many times already.
At first light, a knock.
Chronara stood in the doorway. Her ancient face held lines that hadn't been there in the earlier visions—lines of grief, of exhaustion, of futures narrowing.
"You should see..." she said. No explanation. Just that.
Owen followed.
