The silence in the wake of the explosion was heavier than any sound. Lucian stared at his hands; the skin was peeling away in translucent, gray flakes where he had tried to bridge the aura surrounding Lyra. He felt no pain—only a terrifying, hollow absence of sensation, as if that part of his existence had been erased from time itself.
Across the room, the Oracle was on her knees, her tattered gray robes fluttering in a wind that shouldn't have existed in a sealed chamber. She was muttering prayers to gods that hadn't been whispered to for a thousand years.
"Sire," Kaelen whispered, his hand white-knuckled on his sword hilt. His eyes were fixed on Lyra's floating form, which was slowly descending back toward the ruined black silk. "The men in the courtyard... they say the Spire is bleeding shadow. The stone is weeping black ink. We cannot keep her here. She is a beacon for every horror in the Great Waste."
