Lucy stood on a platform of ancient stone at the bottom of the Grey Sea. The slab was massive and weathered, etched with crumbling runes whose meanings had long since been lost to time.
Around him, a howling cylinder of wind magic roared upward in a towering spiral, keeping the crushing ocean at bay. The gale twisted and screamed as it climbed, its currents thrashing his drenched black hair and tugging at the shredded remnants of his cloak.
The sea pressed against the air tunnel like a leviathan's mouth held barely ajar. Water churned in violent, suspended waves mere inches beyond the barrier, the pressure alone enough to snap bone if it collapsed. Yet the tunnel held. Narrow, flickering bands of fire still danced within the winds, maintaining the structure, though barely. The walls of air shimmered, trembling with strain.
