The Aether Spire
Dawn broke over the Northern Wastes, pale and fragile, as if the sun itself was afraid to disturb the silence.
The Blood Eclipse had faded, leaving behind a sky of bruised purple and soft, icy blue. The wind, which had screamed during the battle, was now a gentle breeze that carried the scent of pine and cooling magic.
The battlefield had been cleared. The bodies of the fallen—Rogue and Council alike—had been gathered with respect, laid out on pyres of weirwood that sent columns of white smoke into the morning air. The constructs had crumbled into piles of inert stone. The Spire, scarred and cracked but still floating, cast a long shadow over the plateau.
At the heart of it all lay a bundle of white fur blankets.
Inside, Julian slept.
The infant Hybrid King was unawa
