The cliff edge was a jagged wound in the world, dropping sheer into a violent, churning abyss.
Below, the ocean heaved with black, foaming fury, swallowing the faint celestial glow of Orisyl's thread. The magic cut straight down through the dark waves, drilling miles into the sunless depths where no daylight had ever reached. It hung there like an impossible lifeline—a silent, urgent pulse in the storm, pulling toward Amara.
"We need a ship," Des said, his voice cutting through the roar of the surf. He turned away from the edge, his keen eyes scanning the desolate, wind-scoured coastline with the grim practicality of a soldier. "Or a boat. Anything that floats and can hold against this current."
