The morning air of the Obsidian Peak no longer hummed with the high-pitched
vibration of the Fourteenth King's geometry or the suffocating pressure of the
Void. Instead, it carried the honest, biting scent of thawing pine and the damp,
earthy aroma of the mud churned up by six thousand pairs of feet. The sky was a
pale, translucent blue—a "Real" sky that didn't change color based on my mood or
the state of a magical gear.
I stood on the lower balcony of the Great Hall, watching the valley below. The
violet glass palace had been replaced by a sprawling village of stone and
timber. Smoke curled from hundreds of chimneys, a messy, disorganized tapestry
of life that felt more permanent than any starlight cathedral. But as I looked
at my people, I felt a sharp, hollow ache in the center of my chest.
The "Sanguine Song" was silent.
For years, I had navigated the world through the heartbeats of others. I had
