Citlali hit the ground hard, her body slamming into the soaked earth with a sickening thud. Rain poured in sheets from the blackened sky, turning the sacred clearing into a mire of mud and blood. Her once-pristine robes clung to her skin, stained with dirt, water, and fear. All around her, the screams of her people—the Masters of the Night-Wind—were drowned beneath the monstrous howls of the Abyss. Their tribe, her home, was being consumed.

“Get away! I… I’m not—!” she cried, voice cracking as she stumbled backward.

She flung out a trembling hand, reaching for the power that had once answered her call without hesitation. Her Vision hung heavy at her side… dim, unresponsive, as if the stars themselves had turned their backs. No warmth. No light. Nothing.

For the first time, Citlali felt the hollow chill of helplessness grip her heart.

And the abyssal monsters, eyes gleaming with hunger, were closing in—slow, deliberate, and merciless.