The first cry of a newborn is said to be the most honest sound in the world. It is a raw, unadorned declaration of existence, a demand for air, for warmth, and for the recognition of a soul that has finally broken free from the dark.
As I lay in the center of the shattered courtyard of the Obsidian Peak, the sound of Aidan's lungs filling for the first time was louder to me than the collapse of the violet glass palace or the screaming of the dying moon. The air around us, which had been thick with the ozone of the "Revision" and the suffocating perfection of the Mirror, was suddenly swept clean. A gentle, cooling breeze carried the scent of wet earth, crushed wildflowers, and the sharp, metallic tang of the "Real."
