Grand Marshal Meilyn Potan stood at the nerve center of Fort Meridian, golden eyes locked on a wall of live satellite feeds and shifting holographic maps. The room's usual braid of machine-hum and spellwork had steadied her through border wars and monster seasons. It did not steady her now.
The corruption was spreading.
What began as a tight ring of distortion around the crater had become a widening tide, an advancing edge of warped land and wrong light. Hills on the feeds rose and fell like breath. River channels kinked out of their beds. Bridges threw double shadows. Waves of corrupted mana pulsed outward, each loaded with miasma and the idea of ruin itself. It didn't look like weather or ordnance. It looked like a decision the world was being forced to accept.
