The sky was a wound.
As Lyra and her companions climbed the broken ridge toward the capital’s heart, lightning tore through the clouds in jagged bursts of violet and white. The sound was deafening — not thunder - but something deeper. A voice made of storms.
Arcturus’s ritual had reached its zenith.
The city below was gone — replaced by a swirling maelstrom of energy and ruin. Buildings hung suspended in the air, frozen mid-collapse, fragments of earth and crystal rotating like planets around a dying sun. The air itself shimmered, vibrating with a low hum that made Lyra’s skin crawl.
Zephyr squinted against the wind. “The closer we get, the heavier it feels. Like the air’s pressing down on us.”
Lirien’s voice trembled. “That’s the resonance field. The voice is bleeding into our realm.
