The rebirth of the Ashlands was not subtle.
Where once black rock jutted sharply from volcanic plains and molten rivers carved scars into the land, green shoots now pierced the ash.
Meadows unfolded where cinders had reigned, and water bubbled from new springs, cold and clean, spilling down ravines that had been dry for centuries.
The light of the Architect, guided by Caedrion's hand and Aelindria's inherited spark, had remade the very bones of the world.
To the eye of any traveler, it seemed as though the Architect's life had returned to the land at last.
And the world noticed.
In the coastal fortress of Highcliff, banners of blue and silver flapped in the salt wind.
Lord Veyren Marvik leaned upon his balcony, gazing not at the sea but at the inland horizon where news came riding faster than tides.
His steward recited from a parchment.
