A brittle wind swept over the scarred battlements of the Sanctum as dawn broke in a wash of blood-orange and frost-blue. The recent victory against the Ashborn had left the city trembling on the brink of both ruin and rebirth. In the quiet hours before the sun's full arrival, Liam stood alone at the highest tower, gazing toward the distant northern wastes where storm clouds churned like the memories of past grief. The Emberheart, still resonating with the merged power of the Source and ancient relics, pulsed steadily against his chest—a living talisman of hope and responsibility.