The transition from the solid, unyielding diamond of the Obsidian Peak to the
fluid, suffocating embrace of the West was not a physical journey; it was a
sensory collapse. One moment, I was standing on the Sovereign's Terrace, the
"Perfect Tooth" mark on my palm cooling against the crisp mountain air. The
next, the ground beneath my feet dissolved into a slurry of salt and liquid
shadow. The air, which had smelled of pine and victory, was replaced by the
overwhelming, iron-heavy scent of the Bordeaux Sea—the collective blood of every
"unwanted" soul that had ever been cast into the deep.
I was no longer breathing air. I was breathing Memory.
The world turned a deep, light-drinking crimson. I was suspended in a vertical
abyss of dark red water, illuminated only by the faint, pulsing glow of the
silver names etched into my skin. The pressure was absolute, a physical weight
that tried to push the very marrow from my bones. It felt as if the ocean were
