The brass gear lying on the stone floor of the Sovereign's Terrace was no larger than a dinner plate, yet it possessed a mass that seemed to warp the very light of the morning sun. It didn't just sit there; it occupied the space with a heavy, rhythmic arrogance. Every few seconds, the cogs would twitch, letting out a sharp, metallic snick that vibrated through the soles of my feet and echoed in the tectonic marrow of my bones.
I stood at the edge of the terrace, clutching Aidan to my chest. My son was quiet now, his gold and black eyes tracing the spinning of the gear with a terrifyingly ancient focus. The "Sieve" in my soul—that reservoir of Hallowed light and Obsidian shadow—was churning. The amber heart mark on my palm wasn't just glowing; it was flickering in and out of existence, caught in a strobe-like rhythm that matched the ticking of the mountain.
"Don't touch it," Kaelen warned, his voice low and dangerous.
