The darkness that fell over Aethelgard was not the gentle twilight of the Crags; it was a heavy, suffocating weight. For three centuries, the “Golden City” had never known a true night. Its streets had been bathed in the perpetual, honey-coloured hum of aetheric lanterns, and its homes warmed by the invisible pulse of the Sun Crown.
Now, as the crown’s liquid remains cooled into a dull, leaden stain on the cathedral steps, the city let out a collective, shivering gasp. The lanterns sputtered and died, leaving behind only the acrid smell of ozone and the terrifying clarity of the stars.
“Kael, get the torches,” Abigail commanded, her voice the only steady thing in the sudden gloom. “Pip, find the granary wardens. If people start to panic in the dark, they’ll trample each other before the
