Chapter 55

The next morning, Aethel returned—covered in soot, her clothes torn, her arm wrapped hastily in gauze and visibly burned. Her steps were uneven, but her expression was triumphant.

In her pouch: a small vial filled with glowing orange powder that shimmered like dying embers.

“Phoenix ash,” she rasped hoarsely, just before collapsing into Beta Alessio’s arms. “That place… it nearly killed us. But we