Murphy raised his dragon claw.
His five talons spread open.
A Crimson glow surged from his fingertips, covering the golden canopy.
Wherever the light touched, the Golden Threads snapped one by one.
The fragments fluttered down, their broken ends as clean as paper cut by a knife.
He extended his dragon claw again and tore.
A rift ripped open from the middle, widening as he pulled, revealing the dark rooftops and pale gray flagstone paths below.
He looked down.
The open-air Holy Hall was filled with people.
Heads tilted back, mouths agape, eyes wide and round.
Golden fragments drifted down from the sky, swirling above their heads like a lingering snowfall that refused to melt.
Fear.
Fear was on everyone's face.
The Warriors who had retreated from the battlefield.
The Elders, women, and children who had never left the village in their lives.
Right now, the expressions on their faces were all identical.
Someone took a step back.
