The twin suns cast golden light over the Spires of Avaren, jagged peaks that cut the sky like shattered glass. Mirin crouched at the edge of a chasm, her leather gloves slick with dragon blood. In her hand was the Shard of Yveren, a crystalline dagger humming faintly with ancient power.
Behind her, the earth trembled as the storm-dragon stirred, wings like liquid thunder unfurling as it clawed free of its molten lair. The beast’s gaze, molten gold, locked on her. Mirin didn’t flinch. She had climbed these mountains, crossed cursed rivers, and outpaced shadow assassins for this moment.
She darted forward, dodging an arc of flame that singed the rocks behind her. The Shard’s song grew louder as she slammed it into the dragon’s heart. A blinding pulse erupted, and the air tasted of lightning. The dragon roared—not in pain, but in release—as its massive form dissolved into shimmering starlight. The shards coalesced, forming an engraved crown at her feet.
She grasped it, the weight heavier than she expected. As she set it on her head, the mountain quaked. Across Avaren, the cursed saw the skies open, their chains vanishing.
Yet Mirin stood still, tears glinting like emeralds. The dragon’s voice whispered in her mind—for the crown’s power would cost her life. The world saved, her time was now borrowed. She faced the horizon alone.
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