If the world is going to fall apart, it should at least have the decency to do it at night.
Daytime is for coffee and mild anxiety. Not for eldritch ice plagues.
I was in the wardroom with Maera and Soren, elbow-deep in a stack of Hollow reports, when the air changed.
One second: normal castle stuff. Scribes scratching, crystals humming, me trying to understand Everfrost’s version of spreadsheets so we can fight the Hollow or better understand it.
The next: the floor shuddered, every candle flame in the room snapped sideways, and my breath turned to fog like someone had opened a walk-in freezer on full blast.
Soren’s head snapped up. “No,” he said. “No, no, no—”
The far wall groaned.
A thin black line spidered across the stone, crackling like ice on a windshield.
“Is that—?” I star
