The echoes of the Grand Plaza's worship did not cross the great oceans, but the terror did. Far beyond the borders of the newly integrated Central and Western landmasses, the remaining uncounted territories of the world felt the phantom weight of the violet ether-shield pressing down upon their horizons.
In the neutral territory of the Grand Summit, nestled atop the frozen peaks separating the remaining free continents, the air inside the Chamber of Crowns was thick with incense and desperate prayers.
Holy Cardinal Malachai of the Temple of Ascalon stood at the center of the triangular obsidian table. His pristine white robes were woven with defensive divine runes, but the golden staff in his right hand tapped against the stone floor in a frantic, irregular rhythm. His eyes, usually bright with holy fervor, were bloodshot and hollow.
