The transition from the cool, buoyant sapphire of the Western Sea to the
scorched, vibrating threshold of the South was a descent into a literal forge.
As the Pearl-Sovereign sailed away from the Trench of Tears, the air did not
simply warm; it thickened, turning into a heavy, golden haze that tasted of
parched earth and ancient, unspent lightning. The sky above was no longer the
clear, honest blue of the "Real" world; it had become a bruised, shimmering
orange—the color of iron just before it melts.
I stood on the deck, my hand resting on the railing. The Burning Ember mark on
my palm was no longer a dormant tattoo. It was a rhythmic, searing pulse that
sent tremors of heat through my arm, vibrating in sync with the subterranean
roars coming from the Sun-Eater Peaks ahead. My skin felt tight, a fine sheen of
perspiration evaporating into white steam the moment it touched the air. I
looked at my reflection in the iridescent hull of the ship. My hair, the deep
