The wind off the high ridge carried the sharp scent of ozone and cold pine, snapping the long hem of Shaurya's black-and-gold coat against his boots. Below the terrace, where the valley opened into the dusty border roads, the sea of heads moved like an endless, dark tide. Hundreds of thousands of faces—pale, wind-chapped, and hollow-eyed—stared upward at the white jade precipice, their collective breathing rising as a low, anxious murmur.
Shaurya leaned his hip casually against the carved balustrade, resting one arm over the polished stone. A faint, easy smile touched his lips as he looked out over the vast expanse of the mortal realm stretching into the haze.
"Well," Shaurya murmured, his voice rich with quiet amusement, "it'd be a shame to make them walk up mud paths after coming all this way."
He didn't reach for a spell seal. He didn't draw a talisman. He simply brought his right hand out from his coat pocket, lifted his thumb to his middle finger, and flicked his wrist.
