The White Sea was a memory, its milky, sterilized waters receding into the
sapphire depths of the Whispering Coast as the Inquisition's fleet vanished into
the fold of the horizon. The silence that followed was not the heavy, oppressive
hush of the Void or the brittle stillness of the Mirror; it was a vast, open
quiet—the sound of a world that had been weighed, measured, and found
"irregular," yet was still permitted to spin.
I sat on the black sand, my legs tucked beneath me, watching Aidan sleep. My son
was the only thing in this world that felt consistent. His breathing was a soft,
rhythmic tide, a contrast to the chaotic, soaring power currently circulating in
my own veins. I looked at my palm, where the mark of the white feather glowed
with a soft, ethereal radiance. It didn't burn like the Sanguine fire or itch
like the Sapphire frost. It felt light—impossibly light—as if that single patch
of skin were no longer subject to the gravity of the earth.
