The descent into the Capital was like falling into the maw of a dying beast. The Silent Tower stood at the center of the sprawl—a jagged, light-drinking obelisk of obsidian that seemed to pierce the very belly of the night sky.
Lyra clung to the Origin dragon, its moonstone scales shimmering with an ethereal, translucent light that bent the air around them. To any sentry on the walls, they were nothing more than a distortion in the moonlight, a ghost passing through the clouds.
"Down," Lyra whispered, her voice a sharp silver thread.
The iridescent dragon banked sharply, landing with silent precision on the uppermost balcony of the Tower. The air here was thick with Wither-Smoke—a green, sickly haze that smelled of stagnant water and old copper. Lyra felt it immediately; the silver
