The "Real" world was a heavy, demanding thing. In the weeks that followed the
collapse of the Seventh Trial, the high-altitude air of the Obsidian Peak no
longer hummed with the electric potential of a goddess's wrath. It was just
air—thin, biting, and carrying the persistent, earthy scent of damp stone and
woodsmoke. For years, I had moved through the world as if I were a guest in my
own skin, filtering cosmic energies that made me feel weightless. Now, every
step I took across the granite floors of the Sanctum was a reminder of the
gravity I had fought to reclaim.
I stood in the center of the Great Hall, which had been transformed from a
throne room into a logistical hub. The obsidian throne remained, but it was
buried under a mountain of wool blankets and crates of dried fish. Tables were
strewn with parchment, but they weren't maps of war; they were census records
and grain-yield projections.
