I stood in the center of a swirling, thoughtful Grey Mist, a cloud of my own making. From it, I had sculpted blossoms of pure misdirection, choices written small that danced on the air. I had taken the first two movements of the Violet Divine Mist art and successfully translated them into the language of The Grey. I had found the grammar.
"You have learned to ask a question," Alice said from the edge of the balcony, her voice cutting through my concentration. "But the art is a conversation. It requires answers. The Third Movement, the Crimson Sunset, is the art's primary answer. It is a statement of power. Show me how you can make your silent truth deliver a final word."
