The green soapstone retaining walls beneath Caleb Conway’s boots gave a sudden, shuddering heave that sent ripples racing through the surface of the lotus pools.
Across the circular crater, the peaceful quiet shattered as the amber sky curdled into a dark, bruised violet that choked out the sunlight. A low groaning sound, reminiscent of grinding millstones, echoed from deep within the bedrock, followed immediately by an erratic atmospheric drop that made the breath catch in the throats of ninety gathering disciples. The spatial integrity holding the pocket realm together was fracturing forty-eight hours ahead of the predicted cycle, venting jagged seams of white static across the upper rim of the volcanic basin.
Iris dropped from her white courser, her boots striking the soapstone with a
