The silence that followed the destruction of the relay was not the peace of a finished struggle. It was the breathless, suffocating quiet that precedes the end of a world. Above the jagged peaks of the Northern range, the sky fractured. It did not tear like cloth. It splintered like brittle glass, revealing a roiling expanse of violet and chrome void behind the familiar blue.
Malphas stood amidst the scattered soldiers of the golden hawk banner. They were paralyzed, their weapons lowered, their faces drained of color as they looked upward. The shadow that had fallen was not a cloud. It was a vessel, vast and geometric, descending with a sound like a thousand dissonant bells ringing in unison.
"That," Malphas whispered, his voice catching in his throat as he moved to stand beside Lyra, "i
