The air in the Verdant Isles had undergone a radical purification. The cloying,
over-ripe scent of Baron Vesper's "Bloom"—that intoxicating mix of jasmine,
mint, and mind-altering pheromones—had been swept away by a fierce, salt-laden
wind from the open sea. The sky was no longer a permanent, static gold; it was a
vast, restless canvas of stormy greys and pale blues, reflecting the honesty of
a world that was allowed to change, to wither, and eventually, to rest.
I stood on the white-stone pier of the central island, watching the tide pull
the last of the glowing emerald algae out into the deep-sea trenches. My ivory
skin felt cold—the real, biting cold of a Western spring—and I pulled my heavy
wool cloak tighter around my shoulders. The silver names of the ten thousand
were quiet beneath my skin, a silent library of lives that no longer hummed with
the frequency of a hive-mind. They were individuals now, and as I looked at the
