The heat radiating from the Siphon-Tower was no longer the dry, industrial
warmth of a furnace. It was the screaming, incandescent temperature of a reality
being torn apart from the inside. In the center of the base chamber, I was
anchored to the silver ground-plate, my hand fused to the Aegis-Shard as the
violet light of the Inversion flowed through my veins. The "Real" world was
blurring at the edges, replaced by a flickering, high-contrast landscape where
the shadows were made of solid ink and the light was sharp enough to draw blood.
I looked up at the figure standing in the swirling violet mist. He was the
silhouette of a man, tall and lean, draped in a cloak of shifting obsidian
smoke. His hair was a river of absolute night, and his eyes—those unblinking
mirrors—held a depth of cold, ancient knowledge that paralyzed my very soul.
He wore the face of the man who had bought me at the auction. He wore the face
