The sun that rose over the North on the first day of the new era did not
announce itself with the heraldry of a goddess. There were no golden trumpets of
light, no tectonic vibrations signaling the approval of the earth, and no violet
eye watching from the heavens to ensure the script was being followed. It was a
pale, quiet, and profoundly ordinary sun. It crept over the jagged horizon of
the Sanguine Range—now no longer mountains of translucent red glass, but peaks
of weathered granite and ancient, grey stone—and cast long, cool shadows across
a world that was learning how to breathe for the very first time.
I woke up not on a throne of bone or a bed of starlight, but on a simple pallet
of wool and cedar-scented furs. My body felt as though it had been disassembled
and put back together by an apprentice who didn't quite know where the joints
belonged. Every muscle carried a dull, rhythmic ache; my ribs felt tight, and my
