The Fork was unnaturally quiet after the storm. It felt as if the world itself had bled dry and was now holding its breath.
Ash drifted down like snow, each flake shimmering faintly, carrying the fading glow of broken code.
The air was sharp and heavy, biting with the tang of ozone mixed with something deeper and older—like the very foundation of the world had been burned and was still smoldering.
Kaito groaned as he pushed himself up from the cracked stone beneath him. His hand throbbed with pain where the voidfire had torn through it.
The skin hissed, faint trails of violet light seeping from the wound before it slowly closed into jagged scars. He flexed his fingers once, then again, testing their strength.
The pain shot up his arm like fire, but at least they obeyed him. The storm had not only tried to tear him apart—it had ripped through the Fork itself, leaving its mark on everything around.
