Chapter 19
Scars of the Night
The Crimson Moon wanes, leaving behind a changed Oakhaven. The survivors bear the indelible marks of the terror, their powers and bonds forged anew in the crucible of a single, terrible night.
The crimson moon, a bruised eye in the heavens, bled its last vestiges of light across the ravaged town. Oakhaven, once a tapestry of cobblestones and twilight charm, was now a landscape etched with the harsh lines of terror. Dawn, a pale and hesitant visitor, began to paint the eastern sky with shades of ash and rose, a stark contrast to the inferno we had endured. We stood amidst the ruins, the scent of burnt magic and shattered dreams clinging to the air like a shroud. My own hands, usually conduits of gentle luminescence, were stained with a grimy residue, a physical manifestation of the night’s brutal calligraphy.
Lyra, her youthful face streaked with soot and tears, leaned against a toppled statue of the town’s founder, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The raw, untamed power that had surged through her, a force she had barely begun to comprehend, had saved us, but at a cost that was yet to be fully tallied. Her eyes, usually alight with youthful exuberance, were now shadowed with a weariness that belied her years. She clutched a shard of obsidian, its surface still warm from the inferno, a stark reminder of the forbidden magic that had answered her desperate plea.
"Morgana," she whispered, her voice hoarse, "is it… over?"
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