The atmosphere in the High Spire was thick with the scent of ozone and the heavy, metallic tang of the Heart of Boreas. Outside, the moon was a sharp silver sliver, but inside the Sacred Ice Baths, the light was a suffocating, clinical blue.
Arkon von Hiver stepped across the threshold, his teal robes whispering against the frost-covered obsidian floor. He was a man who prided himself on his composure, on the absolute control he exerted over the elements and his people. But as he approached the central crystal, his eyes narrowed.
The resonance was off.
It wasn't the steady, low hum of a stabilizing artifact. It was a jagged, syncopated rhythm—a pulse that didn't belong to a goddess, but to a girl with a racing heart and a mind full of fire.
