The starlight blue of the Aether was no longer a sanctuary of peace; it was a
canvas being slowly consumed by a spreading stain of absolute, light-drinking
ink.
The rift that had opened in the center of the celestial sky was not a mere hole
in the atmosphere. It was a Singularity of Intent. It hummed with a frequency
that silenced the melodic weeping of the falling islands of Aethelgard. The air
around the Pearl-Sovereign grew thick and heavy, smelling not of ozone or
jasmine, but of the very first cold that had existed before the sun was lit. It
was the scent of a vacuum—of a hunger that had waited a billion years to be fed.
I stood at the prow of the ship, my hand clutching the silver-etched railing. My
skin, shimmering with the silver-ash of Kaelum and the opal-light of the Dawn,
felt like it was being pulled toward the rift. The Silver Compass on my left
wrist was no longer spinning; the needle was locked, pointing directly into the
