The spring that finally claimed the Obsidian Peak was not the raw, struggling
awakening we had earned through the "Frozen Forge." It was something far more
seductive, far more terrifying in its absolute perfection.
Overnight, the rust-colored mire of the valley had been replaced by a carpet of
grass so vibrant it looked as though the earth had been painted in shades of
emerald and lime. The Sanguine Lakes were no longer boiling or Bordeaux; they
were clear, still, and mirrored the sky with a photographic precision that made
the head swim. The air was no longer a blade of ice or a humid soup of predator
musk; it was a constant, balmy seventy degrees, smelling perpetually of baking
bread, sun-dried linen, and the sweet, heavy nectar of the "Golden Lilies"—a new
breed of flower that had replaced the Dawn-Lilies, their petals soft as velvet
and twice as large.
I stood on the Sovereign's Terrace, my hands resting on a railing that no longer
