The fire had nearly died.
Julian sat still, listening to the faint rustling of wind brushing over the grass and distant murmurs of soldiers and servants sleeping uneasily in the dark. The air smelled cleaner now—less of blood and death—but it hadn't washed everything away.
Especially not the thoughts swirling in his mind.
His fingers curled slightly, flexing.
The tingling in his palm hadn't faded. If anything, it was growing stronger—more focused. As if something beyond his skin was calling to him.
No.
Not something.
The turtle.
It was still out there, just beyond the perimeter. Covered by tarps, guarded lazily by a few dozing sentries who clearly believed the danger had passed. Which, to be fair, it had.
Except for Julian.
He could still feel it.
That mana—the weight of it—lingering in the air like a storm that hadn't fully broken. Even now, the turtle's corpse throbbed like a beacon in his senses, resonating with the part of him that had changed. Or awakened.
