My first Crimson Sunset in the Grey sounded like a building falling down.
The form was one I knew in my sleep: gather everything, hold it, release it in one decisive stroke. The old me would have poured every scrap of power into it and called the noise a result. The new me, High Radiant with Sword Accord sitting quietly in my wrists, reached for the Grey without thinking and tried to tear a rift through the air.
The air shrieked. It was a loud, ugly sound, raw power being bent in a direction it didn't want to go. The containment field at the far end of the balcony bowed inwards and held. It would have broken a mountain. It had no art in it at all. It was a shout.
"A conclusion is not a weapon," Alice said, sharp. "It is a result. You are still shouting. The art calls for a sunset, a moment of beautiful, quiet finality, not an explosion. Find the silence in your power."
