The moon hung low over the ruins of the ritual tower, casting silver light across the ash-covered ground. The air was thick with magic residue cloying, burnt, and bitter. Lucas stood guard near the perimeter while a few of his men gathered what was left of the witches' scrolls and shattered relics. None of them dared speak too loudly. The forest had gone silent again.
I held my son in my arms, sitting on a broken slab of stone that once served as the tower's threshold. His small frame pressed tightly against mine, his breathing slow and uneven. He hadn't woken fully, just drifted in and out of shallow sleep with a few soft murmurs. Each time he stirred, I whispered his name Auren hoping it would anchor him.
My hand trembled as I stroked his dark curls. He looked like me, but I saw traces of Lucas in the furrow of his brow. The thought twisted something sharp in my chest.
Auren was alive. I had him. But everything else felt like it was breaking beneath the surface.
