The great tent was steeped in a deceptive heat, saturated with melted wax, wet leather, and sweat. Torches fixed to the posts cast reddish flames over the maps spread on the ground, drawing shifting borders, as if even the parchment itself still hesitated to accept the new geography of the world.
She was there, kneeling before me, head bowed, hands joined against her bare thighs. The Saint. Her white hair clung to her temples, still heavy with melted snow, and her lips trembled with a breath that resembled a prayer. Yet it was no longer God she was invoking: it was me.
I straightened slowly, my boots scraping against the carpet of hides. My voice cut through the silence like a blade.
— There is no longer an Eastern Domain.
She barely lifted her head, her scarlet eyes seeking mine, burning with a troubled fever.
— There is only the Eighth Thorn, Lord.
