The sea did not rage.
It did not howl against the cliffs, nor crash in thunderous fury against the harbor walls.
It watched.
A vast, breathing expanse of black glass beneath a fractured sky, its surface reflecting the faint remnants of ritual light like scattered stars drowned upside down.
Ethan stood alone on the western balcony of the capital's highest spire, the stone cool beneath his palms. Hours had passed since the ritual lattice dissolved, yet faint threads of residual mana still shimmered across the heavens—thin veins of silver light slowly fading into the firmament.
Below him, the capital breathed.
Lanterns flickered in cautious streets. Guards rotated in tighter formations than usual. Watchtowers hummed with low-grade detection arrays. The city was alive.
But it was not at ease.
The air carried something fragile—like a string pulled too tight and waiting for a careless touch.
