The ceiling of the Blackfang Fortress's ancient library did not simply fall; it was systematically unmade. The structural timber beams, reinforced by generations of northern runes and iron brackets, dissolved into a fine, colorless dust that smelled faintly of scorched lime and dead salt. Above the gaping cavity, the sky was no longer blue or even the crimson of the vanguard's twilight. It had become a flat, seamless expanse of blinding alabaster logic—the lower margin of the Interstice, pulled down like a heavy shroud over the Western Ridge.
Gwen lay back against the ruined masonry, her breathing coming in thin, fluid-choked gasps that rattled through her solar-iron breastplate. Her fingers, slick with a mixture of silver amniotic fluid and dark red blood, were still locked around the tiny, squirming weight resting against her chest.
