"He is his great-grandfather," Kaelen growled, his deep, primal voice dropping into a guttural rumble. The northern term for a great-grandchild—a phrase reserved for long winter genealogies recited by the hearth fires—slipped from his tongue like a visceral curse. "He's looking at his own blood. He isn't tracking an enemy anymore; he's assessing a piece of his own missing architecture."
The monumental white giant slowly withdrew his massive right hand by a fraction of a mile. The colossal limb, constructed from thousands of interlocking limestone cubes, shifted with a terrifying, frictionless precision that left the upper atmosphere entirely silent. As his block-like fingers opened toward the shattered rafters of the high library tower, they revealed a swirling, iridescent vortex of gold and platinum runes spinning deep within the center of his palm. It was a beautiful, mathematical abyss, pulsing with the pure logic of the high Interstice.
