She slowly lifted her head, her milky eyes wide, sensing the holy stillness that had reclaimed the clearing.
"It's... gone?" Zephyra whispered.
Her voice cracked, trembling with the sheer impossibility of what had just failed to happen. She remained on her hands and knees in the churned mud, dark blood still dripping from her mouth onto the broken ground, her blind, milky eyes fixed upward as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For a High Shaman steeped in ancestral lore, an absolute heavenly execution was the end of the line.
The decrees of the realm did not negotiate, they did not waver, and they certainly did not pack up and evaporate into thin air without bringing down cataclysms that change the geography of the surroundings.
After all, according to records passed down from generations, even though the descent of heavenly decree was incredibly rare, maybe once in a thousand years, but whenever it happened, there was widespread destruction and bloodbath.
