The silence that followed the collapse of the Mountain of Glass was not a peaceful one; it was the heavy, expectant hush of a world that had forgotten how to breathe without a script. On the Sovereign's Terrace of the Obsidian Peak, the air was still thick with the scent of ozone and the shimmering residue of white butterflies—the lingering fragments of Selene's shattered perfection.
I stood at the stone railing, my hands gripping the weathered granite. The ivory skin of my palms felt sensitive, as if the nerves were still vibrating from the touch of the "Unwritten" potential. The opal heart mark on my right hand was surrounded by a faint, shimmering Silver Halo, a gift from Kaelum's sacrifice that felt like a cool, constant anchor against the chaotic heat of my blood.
