The journey to the Iron-Thorn Pass was a grueling lesson in the physics of a
world that no longer bowed to the whims of the divine. In the "Sanguine Age," we
would have traversed this distance in hours, riding the tectonic shifts of the
earth or soaring through the clouds on drakes whose wings were fueled by pure
starlight. Now, the march took four days. The drakes, no longer celestial
behemoths, required mechanical respirators designed by the Eastern engineers
just to breathe in the thin, high-altitude air of the ridges. Their wings, once
capable of sustaining flight for weeks, now grew heavy with the lactic acid of
mortal exertion.
I rode atop Argentis, but the silver-furred drake was no longer my familiar; he
was my mount. We were connected not by a psychic link, but by leather reins and
iron bits. I could feel the rhythmic heave of his lungs through the saddle, a
sound that mirrored the labor of my own heart. Beside me, Kaelen rode a
