On the shores of the Palace Island, a legion of shadows was drowning in the sea of wraiths.
The lake had become covered by billowing mist, glowing with ethereal light as an endless armada of ghastly ships glided across its waters. There were so many of them that one could travel from shore to shore by jumping from deck to deck; each ghostly vessel carried scores of imprisoned souls in its hold, and as soon as they reached the Palace Island, those souls were sent forth to join the battle.
The island was being swallowed by mist, and the Shadow Legion was being besieged by the horrid tide of wraiths.
Jet had found herself plunging into the familiar heightened state of battle focus. The world had become both simple and profoundly intricate, void of emotions, but full of calculated intent. There was no past or future in that world, only the present moment — only action and reaction, cause and effect, happening so swiftly that they were almost one and the same.
Combat was simple.
