The transition from the paper-ocean of Orizon back to the churning, salt-heavy
reality of the Western Sea was a slow, agonizing re-materialization. It felt
like being pulled through a narrow sieve made of iron filings. For hours, the
Dawn-Seeker hummed with a discordant, vibrating frequency as the yellowed vellum
of its hull calcified back into Living Silver and the punctuation-mark rivets
expanded into heavy, rusted iron bolts.
I stood on the quarterdeck, my lungs burning with the sudden influx of
moisture-rich air. The golden mist of Logos's kingdom had been replaced by a
low, heavy ceiling of slate-grey clouds that threatened a winter storm. The
"Real" world was cold, damp, and smelled of decaying kelp—and I had never loved
it more.
I looked down at my hand. The Ink-Stain was there, a dark, perfectly circular
mark in the center of my palm that looked like a fingerprint made of midnight.
It didn't pulse like the previous marks; it was static, heavy, and absolute. It
