The sanctuary was no longer a place of peace; it had become a fortress of bone and blood, a silent witness to the collision of ancient legacies. While the air inside the chamber vibrated with the cosmic, tectonic agony of Gwen's labor, the narrow corridor leading to the ancient stone doors had been transformed into a slaughterhouse of alchemical waste and primal fury.
Kaelen stood alone at the threshold. Behind him lay the woman who was his sun, his moon, and his entire reason for existence—currently being torn apart by the simultaneous arrival of a prince and the rot of a century-old curse. In front of him stood the abyss, cloaked in emerald robes and smelling of sulfur and stagnant magic.
