The explosion swallowed the world in a storm of gold and red. Heat slammed through the canyon, ripping metal, stone, and bone alike. Cain crashed through a ridge, carving a long scar in the rock as he hit the ground and skidded to a halt. His ears rang; his breath was smoke. The echo was gone, or at least, it seemed to be.
He pushed himself up, coughing through the ash and dust. The air shimmered with residual energy—his own mana signature, twisted and unstable, folding over itself like a dying flame.
Eira appeared out of the haze, her left arm burned to the elbow, her coat shredded. "That—was not normal," she rasped.
Cain's hand trembled as he reached for his blade, {Eidwyrm}, half-buried in molten gravel. "It wasn't supposed to be," he said, voice hollow. "That wasn't magic. That was memory made solid."
"What the hell does that mean?" Eira demanded.
