Those who were once under the hall's banner had barely moved since their Sultan was... 'freed.'
And they weren't the only ones; it felt like the air itself had refused to shift, as if afraid any breeze might scatter what was left of him.
But there was nothing left of him.
Nothing... he was dead.
They saw him go before their very eyes.
His departure was seen by all of the Holy City.
A bright golden Aether soaring sky-high...
He had returned home, to where all Aether lived.
That was the moment the world knew.
Their Sultan, their savior, was gone.
Their pillar of faith had Fallen.
Till morning, they stood there, on the hill.
More and more people joined, yet they went unnoticed, all too lost in their own minds.
Not one of them could find the right story to make it make sense.
Martyr, monster, failure—none of the words could even begin to stitch the wound closed.
Many of them had never stopped crying; yes, there were times of just sobs, but those never stayed.
