Chapter 57 The Flood's Wrath

Fynn POV The world is drowning in a flood of light—red, gold, white, silver, black—a raging torrent that tears through the outpost’s ruins, shattering stone, swallowing screams, and ripping the earth apart. My light—red-gold-white-silver, fraying without Eira’s gold—burns in my chest, a desperate spark against the black flicker, now a wildfire, not whispering but screaming, break, end, become, merging with the flood, feeding it, betraying me. Morgan’s hand is gone, his silver light extinguished, his body lost in the chaos, and I’m screaming, my voice lost in the flood’s roar, my tears vaporized by the heat of every power I’ve woken, every choice I’ve made. Elena’s somewhere, her snarl a fading echo, Jake and Mira’s cries swallowed, the outpost’s humans—pack, survivors, changed—gone, dissolved, nothing, and Eira’s gold, my sister-Warden, is a dim memory, her warning—“It’s in us, in the lights”—a prophecy I can’t escape.