The stars pulsed overhead as Elira pressed her hand to the ancient oak’s bark. The sigils carved into her palm glowed, reacting to the Leyline beneath. The barrier shuddered. She whispered the incantation, voice blending with the night wind.
Behind her, the Shadowborn surged from the trees, their blackened claws reaching. The ritual was slow, but if she faltered, the wards guarding the Heart of Aetherium would collapse.
A claw raked her shoulder. She gritted her teeth, pouring the last of her essence into the spell. Light erupted, coursing like molten silver into the earth. The Shadowborn screamed as the sacred boundary sealed once more.
Elira stumbled, exhausted. The Heart—source of all magic—was safe, but her sigils had burned away. She could no longer wield the magic she once commanded.
She exhaled, gazing at the warded forest. She had lost her power, but Aetherium would endure. That, she decided, was enough.
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