Chapter 37. Reckoning

The transition from the sterile air of the Citadel to the suffocating darkness of the forest was jarring. Aria was a dead weight being dragged by two immense, cloaked figures—the wolves of the Severed Flame. The earth smelled of wet decay and ancient pine, but underneath it all lay the sick, metallic tang of dark magic, a scent that promised only violence.

She was utterly crippled by the Obsidian Weave. It was more than a physical restraint; it was a cage for her very essence. The silver alloy, cold as deep space, sank its chemical teeth into her wrists and torso, actively leeching the life and heat from her core. Where the Weave touched her skin, there was not just suppression, but an absolute, agonizing vacuum. The molten light that usually simmered safely in her chest—the heart of the Flameborn magic—had been turned into a dead, dense stone. Every breath was shallow, every muscle a dull ache, and every beat of her heart felt like it was trying to force solid ice through her