Rain lashed against Marilin’s cloak as she scaled the jagged cliff, her hands glowing faintly blue with the mage’s grip spell. Above her, the crystal spire of Daelthmar pulsed like a heartbeat, its light slicing through the storm. She couldn’t stop now—if the sorcerer Lyvorn lit the Beacon fully, the ancient ward keeping the shadow armies at bay would fall.
A screech pierced the winds. Marilin glanced up to see a wyvern, wreathed in violet flame, diving toward her. She released one hand briefly, hurling a shard of frost magic. It struck true, the wyvern spinning away, but Marilin lost her grip. For one breathless heartbeat, she fell, grasping desperately until her hand found a jut of rock.
Her chest heaved as she pulled herself to the summit. Lyvorn stood at the base of the crystal spire, chanting. His robes shimmered, starry runes twisting into shape. Marilin ran forward, grabbing the Starbreaker blade from its sheath. It was heavy and alive in her hands, its golden edge humming as if it knew destiny awaited.
Lyvorn turned. His laugh was loud, cruel, but it faltered as Marilin drove the blade into the spire. A shockwave exploded, hurling her backward. When her head cleared, the spire was dark, shattered into fragments. Lyvorn was gone, but so was the Starbreaker. Rain soaked her as she gazed silently at the broken horizon beyond.
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