The transition was instantaneous. One moment, the Emerald Shard was a sanctuary of hushed whispers and biological peace; the next, the very atmosphere curdled. The soft, verdant light of the central core was choked out by a thick, visceral red. This wasn't the violet of the "Gaze"—this was the Crimson of the Nightmare.
"The Audience is bored," the Hermit of the Folds spat, his wooden boat creaking as if the air itself had gained teeth. "They’ve stopped trying to vote on your choices. Now, they’re just trying to see how much you can bleed before the 'Show' gets canceled."
Vera fell to her knees, her green skin turning a sickly, bruised gray. The great vines of the Shard, which had provided camouflage for millennia, began to thrash and wither. They weren't dying of disease; they were being
