The smoke from the ruins of the Border-Spire did not rise toward the heavens; it
clung to the jagged earth like a shroud made of charcoal and regret. The sky
above the Great Rift Valley remained a bruised, unhealthy shade of violet,
streaked with the dying embers of the golden light I had released from the
Second Gear. In the distance, the howls of the Lithic Vanguard had shifted from
the roar of the hunt to a low, mournful drone—a dirge for the lives lost and the
world that had been irrevocably altered.
I sat on a slab of cracked white marble, my legs tucked beneath the silver-silk
gown that was now nothing more than a collection of blood-stained rags. My body
felt as though it were made of porcelain that had been shattered and glued back
together with liquid fire. The "Sovereign of the Ash" form had receded, leaving
my skin ivory and pale once more, but the transition had left me hollowed out.
