The Marrow collapsed in on itself.
Not violently, not with the fury of a dying world, but with a quiet, almost peaceful finality. The grey sky above the wasteland began to crack, and through the fissures, golden sunlight streamed down for the first time in millennia. The barrier that had held the Marrow's prisoners—criminals and innocents alike—shattered like glass, dissolving into motes of light that drifted away on the wind.
Jason stood at the center of it all, his feet planted on the broken stone, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The power of the Marrow coursed through him like a second heartbeat, vast and ancient, thrumming with the weight of centuries.
He had conquered the Marrow.
He had done what no one had done for so long that the very memory of it had faded into myth. The four lords, the endless cycle, the prison of souls—all of it was gone. And Jason had been the one to end it.
But the ripples of his victory spread far beyond the borders of the wasteland.
