The moonlight bathed the ruins of Aranthor in a ghostly glow, casting long shadows across the broken streets. The remnants of the once-thriving city stood as silent witnesses to the devastation that had been wrought. Yet amidst the ruin, a flicker of hope remained. It was faint, fragile, but it was there. Elara could feel it in the air, the lingering traces of magic that hadn't been completely extinguished by the rift.
She moved with purpose, despite the weight of her exhaustion. Every step felt like an effort, but she kept going. The world had been broken, and she knew she could not afford to rest—not until they had a chance to restore it. The relic, though dimmed, still pulsed with a faint, distant light in her hand, reminding her of the burden she carried.