The wind faltered.

Not silence—but a _pause_. A _gasp_, caught between worlds.

Telaryn stirred.

Where frost had bitten deep, blood now pulsed again. Where her skin had blistered blue, a flush crept back in—like coals under ash. Ashmire’s blade throbbed in her grip, its surface no longer metal alone, but streaked with lines of frozen light and molten silver. It exhaled heat and frost both. The mountain rumbled.

Sari knelt beside her, hand outstretched, lips parted—but stilled.

Because what rose from the stone was no longer just Telaryn.

Her hair had streaked white, blood curled like ribbons beneath her eyes. Her breath steamed out in perfect spirals. Her eyes—_gods above_, those eyes—were fixed on the storm not as a victim, but as a force returning home.

A queen.

“They test me,” Telaryn murmured, her voice layered now—hers, and not hers. “But I did not climb for mercy.”

The air spirit shrieked from above—its falcon-form breaking into shards of whirling frost and slicing wind. The mountain spirit rose fully now, a titan of broken stone and churning roots. Its eyes glowed with mountain fire, unmoved.

Telaryn stepped forward. Not hesitating. Not praying.

Commanding.

Ashmire lifted, and the blade seemed to stretch—too long, too alive. It pulsed not just with hunger, but _ecstasy_. When it met the frost-born falcon, the storm split open. Wind and ice turned inward, funneled through the steel, howling as it vanished into her grip.

Telaryn moaned—not in pain, but something _near to rapture_.

The mountain spirit charged, one colossal arm raised. Ashmire met it not in defense, but with a _cleave_ born of fury and fate. The blade howled. Stone cracked. The spirit shuddered as its arm broke at the joint—then crumbled, falling to its knees.

“Submit,” Telaryn whispered.

And it did.

The stone bent to her. The air no longer fought. Snow whirled around her in reverent circles, as if _drawn_ to her. Not even a queen. Something _older_.

Sari watched in silence, chest heaving, heart racing.

This was not the girl who had kissed Alisha in the cold or wept for Tuaru in the ash.

This was a queen carved in myth, a creature made of resolve and ruin. _Conqueror of stone and sky._ And Sari felt her breath catch in her throat—not with fear, but with something _achingly close to awe_.

Ryn turned, faintly smiling. Blood-mist clung to her lips like a mark of blessing. Her gaze met Sari’s, and for a moment, the storm faded away entirely.

“I told them I would not die,” she said softly. “Not here.”

Sari couldn’t speak. Her legs moved before her thoughts caught up, falling in beside her—_not behind her_. Her pulse throbbed with heat and reverence and something too dangerous to name.

Wind coiled around Telaryn’s shoulders.

Stone trembled beneath her steps.

And Sari followed—_not as friend, not as guide_—but as something more dangerous still:

A believer.