The prayer began long before Sera's armored carriage reached the perimeter gate.
It was a low, vibrational hum that carried through the sodden earth of the Eastern Grid, cutting through the grinding noise of the carriage's reinforced axles. Sera Myrvalis sat in the dim interior, watching the wasteland roll past the slitted iron windows. The landscape here was entirely monochrome. The soil was choked with the gray runoff of the automated forges Nissa had built, and the sky was a permanent, bruised purple, stained by the distant glow of Ashenveil's central engines.
Thirty years ago, this sector had been a sprawling agricultural hub. It had possessed names, families, and a culture of its own. Then the Cull had swept through.
