Out of thin air stepped a tall figure cloaked in robes of silver and smoke. Archmage Rhelos Varn, ageless, androgynous, and unnervingly calm, moved like mist over glass. Their skin was pale, their irises faintly glowing like dying stars.
"You broke the laws of reality," Rhelos said simply. "We came to study the damage. Or the miracle."
"You're welcome," Valerian said dryly.
Lira whispered, "That one's more ghost than mage."
Selene muttered back, "Don't let them touch your mind. Virelians don't knock before entering."
Rhelos smirked as if they heard every word.
And then came the rumble in the sky.
A roar.
Wings.
> "From the Accord of the Draconians, the Watchers descend."
Three figures dropped from above—scales gleaming, wings folding into humanoid forms. Their features were sharp, regal, inhuman. One wore a half-mask shaped like bone. Another carried a staff shaped like a broken comet.
The last—a tall, silver-scaled woman—watched Valerian without blinking.
