The air still shimmered where the shard's power had torn itself loose. The world seemed warped by its passing, the way heat blurs stone at midday. Smoke curled in thin streams from broken earth, where the ground had split like a cracked plate beneath Leo's feet. Splinters of wood from shattered wagons lay scattered, blackened and still smoking. The fog, once driven back in a single violent breath, crept in again, slow and deliberate, as though alive, as though hungry for what remained.
Leo staggered, his legs trembling beneath him. The after-fire burned in his palms, faint veins of light still crawling under his skin before guttering out. He gasped like a drowning man dragged ashore, chest heaving as though he'd run a hundred leagues with no pause. Each breath scraped his throat raw, but the shard did not rest. It throbbed inside him, a second heart, beating louder than his own, each pulse demanding.
Feed us again. Burn them all. Don't stop now.
