The western face of the Tempest Spire looked like an open, jagged wound.
A mile-wide swath of pine forest, topsoil, and granite crags had been sheared away and thrown down into the valley below, where it lay in a heap of broken timber and grey dust. Where the ancient slope had once curved toward the peak, there was only a raw, pale cliff face showing the white veins of deep-earth menonicite.
Bairan stood at the edge of the ruin, his red-lined cloak fluttering in the icy updraft. He carried no shovel, no mason's trowel, and no spatial storage ring. He simply stood with his hands tucked into his wide grey sleeves and his snow-white hair tied back with a single strip of black leather, looking at the mess he had made while trailing Princess Rehema up the mountain.
Behind him, Northern walked up the stone path from the caldera with his hands in his pockets.
