The exodus from the Whispering Glades was a procession of ghosts. Behind us, the sanctuary that had stood for millennia was a blackened husk, its silver birches reduced to glowing charcoal, its sacred air tainted by the sulfurous stench of the Void. The Seeds of the First Alpha—thousands of glowing, pearl-like droplets of liquid light—were carried in a basin of enchanted obsidian, clutched by Hala as if they were the last embers of a dying sun.
We marched through the grey-veiled North, a ragged band of warriors and outcasts led by a Trinity of blood that the world had sought to extinguish.
