"Lord of Ash," Zephyriss said, presenting the strange violet sword.
Fyren accepted it, the blade gleaming in the storm demon's grip. He swished it through the air, letting out a low, appreciative whistle. As he examined the steel, I looked down at Luke's sleeping face and idly traced his cheek. My thoughts were a mess. I still found it hard to believe the Arbiter was dead—and by Luke's hand.
"All that destruction," I whispered. I looked out at the gray waste. "It's all just ash."
"A small price for felling a ninth-level foe," Fyren said. "When you told us an Arbiter would arrive, I assumed it meant Sylvarus would disappear."
"Duskwood?"
He shook his head. "No, the entire kingdom. It is likely only because your friend is a ninth-level life mage that the destruction was contained. Her Arboreal World stabilized the rampaging mana; it was an extra resistance the blast had to fight through."
