The ocean's shore at the world's end was not blue.
It stretched out vast and resplendent under a hazed horizon of crimson, its waves dark as obsidian, catching only the broken light of a low-hung crescent moon that watched with cold intent. The Hollow Coast was a city of the dead where lost empires sank—half-submerged obelisks and the skeletal hulks of ships lying along the shores like victims to something old and ravenous.
Kael stood at the cliff's edge, his cloak being pulled by the wind, looking out over the boundless horizon. He recalled the Pact's warning seared in his blood, but deeper still burned the mark on his palm—the Warden's final gaze's proof, the cost of sovereignty foregone.
Behind him, Elira crouched beside a weathered runestone twisted with misshapen glyphs, her hand tracing its worn surface. Her eyes glowed with soft voidlight, and her hair flowed behind her like a banner caught in the gale.
