The world did not end with a bang, but with a terrifying, absolute silence.
As the pillar of white-gold light retracted into the heavens, the feedback loop of the Altar snapped with a violent finality.
Lucien, who had been the conduit for both the Grave's darkness and the Altar's purity, suddenly buckled. His knees hit the cracked quartz with a sickening, heavy thud. The silver fire that had flared in his hair died out instantly, leaving the strands a stark, ghostly white—the color of a guttering candle.
"Lucien?" Gwen's voice was a frantic, broken rasp.
She lunged for him just as his body tilted forward, devoid of the grace that had defined him. He didn't catch himself. He fell into her arms, a dead weight that nearly knocked the wind from her lungs.
Gwen pulled him against her chest, her hands trembling so violently she could barely find the pulse point at his neck.
There was nothing.
