He wasn't running from the past anymore. He was walking toward the person he was meant to be, draped in the golden, dangerous light of the magma.
"It’s coming for you," the wind seemed to whisper. "The weight of everything you’ve lost. Run."
The sky over the Balkan ridges wasn’t blue; it was the color of a bruised lung, heavy with the smoke of a thousand fires. In the heart of the valley, where the earth cracked and bled orange heat, stood a figure—a silhouette against the shimmering haze. This was the place they called the Magma.