Prison Island, Warden's Tent
The Violet Spectre
*Tap tap tap*
My foot wouldn't stop.
In a crude tent pitched atop the prison's ruins, I sat before a table buried under scrolls.
Alone, I was always alone now. My black hair fell past my shoulders, strands catching in the cracks of my armour as I hunched over the endless paperwork. My violet eyes—usually keen and calm—burned from hours of writing.
With Alton gone, my workload had doubled. Every artifact, every communication spirit were all swallowed by that monster. Only short-range bird spirits and projection spirits remained, barely enough to reach the nearby villages.
There was no way to contact the higher-ups except sending men back in our one remaining airship.
It was all a headache.
Such a huge headache.
I had scattered some of my forces to hunt fleeing prisoners. We'd caught some of them but the vast majority had either died or escaped.
