Zephyria was anchored in the silent, shimmering expanse of the Silver Citadel, but the floating city did not feel like a military staging ground.
It felt like the end of the world, and everyone was determined to go out making as much noise as mathematically possible.
The golden sky of the celestial dimension had dimmed to a deep, serene twilight. Down in the massive, black-stone courtyards of the lower tiers, thirteen million mortal soldiers were throwing the absolute mother of all farewell parties.
There were no drills. There were no patrols. The Warlord had given them the night off, and they were taking it with terrifying enthusiasm.
Massive bonfires of low-level holy magic burned brightly across the cracked pavement. High Ranger Celeste's veteran mercenaries had somehow managed to breach the Royal Treasury's supply of century-old wine, passing the priceless crystal bottles around to soot-stained militiamen.
