The world ended sideways.
Not with a clean snap or a single decisive roar, but with a staggered failure—like an old bridge finally admitting it had been rotten for years. The ceiling cracked first, a hairline fracture racing along the sigil ring like frost across glass. The sound was high and sharp, setting my teeth on edge. Then the walls bowed inward, stone groaning under pressure that had been building since before I was born.
The black water screamed.
It wasn't sound the way voices were sound. It was vibration—rage and hunger thrumming through bone and stone alike. The obedient arc behind Veyra lost its shape, sloughing downward as if gravity had finally remembered it existed.
Veyra shouted a word of command, harsh and slicing. The water surged toward her—and then hesitated.
For the first time, her smile faltered.
