The sky above the Antarctic was a bruised, twilight purple, churning with energies that had no business in the modern world. Lysander stood at the epicenter of it all, his form a dark silhouette against a maelstrom of stolen history and twisted physics. Below him, the glacial plains of the continent were being rewritten. Gothic spires of black ice clawed their way out of the permafrost, and a perpetual, artificial blizzard howled, scouring the land clean of any trace of the 21st century. He was expanding his territory, building a bastion of ancient power at the bottom of the world.
He did not expect the interruption.
