The ruins were supposed to be empty. That’s what the maps had promised, what the scouts had sworn, what even the whispering winds that haunted this wasteland had implied. Empty. Forgotten. Abandoned to rot and crumble in silence. But as the storm prowled over the broken spires above, Tempest’s lightning cracked through the shadows of the corridor, staining the jagged walls with brief, violent light. Stone, blackened and brittle, seemed to lurch alive in the glow, shadows crawling like creatures desperate to escape. “Hah!” Tempest’s grin split wide, his teeth catching the light as if he owned the night itself. “Piece of cake. We’ll have that artifact in no time.” Sparks fizzled across his knuckles, impatient, restless. Darius’s laugh slithered out from behind him, soft but edged, every note meant to cut. “Says the one who nearly fried us walking through the front gate. Did you even notice the warding sigils? Or were you too busy flexing for the thunderclouds?” Tempest bristled, brash confidence curdling into anger. “Shut it, Darius. Nobody asked for your commentary.” But before their bickering could ignite further, Frost lifted a gloved hand. The simple gesture silenced them more effectively than any shout. He stood a step ahead, his pale gaze sweeping the corridor like ice cutting into still water. Something was wrong. The air itself was shifting. Magic was here—faint, unfamiliar, unnervingly clean. It scraped against his aura, jagged and shrill, like glass dragged across frozen lakes. Frost inhaled slowly, the bite of it making his breath mist in the already-cold air. And then came the sound that didn’t belong. Footsteps. Measured. Steady. Not the erratic scurry of a scavenger or the echo of a crumbling wall, but a purposeful stride. The sound swelled, growing louder until a silhouette spilled out of the chamber ahead. A figure emerged—staff in hand, posture steady, eyes sharper than the ruins around them. A fairy. Not one of Bloom’s polished, self-righteous entourage. No entourage at all. Different. Alone. Frost’s lip curled into something between disdain and curiosity. “Alfea really sent you?” His voice cut like frozen steel, contempt dripping from every syllable. “Pathetic. They must be running out of talent.”