The warmth that Hestos had brought to the Obsidian Peak evaporated as quickly as
a dying man's breath, leaving behind a world that was suddenly, brutally honest.
The golden resin that had turned our warriors into statues of bliss lay in
shattered, dull shards across the courtyard, looking like nothing more than
yellowed ice. The Golden Lilies, those seductive blooms of complacency, had
withered into black, shriveled stalks, their cloying scent replaced by the
sharp, metallic tang of the frozen mountain and the acrid, comforting smell of
woodsmoke from the few hearths that hadn't been abandoned for the King's magic.
I stood on the balcony, my breath hitching in the sub-zero air. The transition
was a physical assault; my joints, which had felt fluid and effortless under the
"Epilogue," now burned with a human fatigue that felt as heavy as stone. I
looked down at my left palm. The Hammer and the Rose tattoo was a dark,
