Lincoln's POV:
The morning after the Seer's funeral was not warm nor was it merciful. The sun rise through a veil of floating ash, its radiance shattered by the tremble veil hang above the Elyndor like a pressure.
To the people below, it was a omen. To us, it was a timer.
From the balconies of the Citadel to the bazaars, the air lingered with fear. Bells rang in low rhythm, bearing warning and weariness. The stench of burn silk lingered in the streets–left by the fire, still warm.
We are already awake long before the sun. The council's orders had come down on us quickly: ready the city. But it was not duty that motivated us. It was the ring of the Seer's final world–"The Blood answers to the one who call its name."
And now I could feel it too, thrumming beneath my skin, keeping tim
