Chapter Thirty-Three: The First Bloom of the Aftermath
The first month of the New Spring was not marked by the budding of flowers, but by the shimmering of the air itself.
In the valley of the Obsidian Hall, the world had become a place of strange, beautiful distortions. The grass did not grow green; it grew a vibrant, electric teal, tipped with silver frost that hummed when the wind caught it. The Shifters, once defined by the raw, earthy scent of fur and musk, now carried a faint, metallic tang—the scent of the "Seed" that had been sewn into their marrow.
I watched it all from the grey periphery.
