The "Real" world had a rhythm that was far more punishing than the frantic,
high-stakes tempo of a god-war. It was a rhythm of slow, grinding labor and the
relentless, creeping cold of a Northern winter that no longer yielded to my
command.
In the weeks following the Great Migration, the Obsidian Peak had transformed
from a temple of shimmering glass and starlight into a hive of sawdust, iron
filings, and human sweat. Without the Hallowed resonance to keep the frost at
bay, the fortress felt like a gargantuan icebox. The stone walls, once glowing
with amber warmth, were now covered in a fine, crystalline rime that turned
every breath into a plume of grey mist.
I stood in the center of the Lower Vaults, which had once been the primary
training pits for the Obsidian sentinels. The transformation here was symbolic
of the new era. The racks of silver-tipped spears and heavy obsidian axes had
been moved to the armory, replaced by workbenches, bellows, and massive iron
