The descent from the ridges into the heart of the Obsidian valley was usually a
moment of quiet homecoming, a transition from the biting, lonely winds of the
high passes to the sheltered warmth of the Sanctum. But as our small party
rounded the final obsidian crag, the view that greeted us did not speak of
sanctuary. It spoke of a fresh, visceral wound in the earth.
The Sanguine Lakes, those vast, interconnected basins of crystalline meltwater
that had formed after the Great Thaw, were no longer the peaceful mirrors of the
sky. From the vantage point of Argentis's back, they looked like pools of
spilled ink—or worse, a sea of thickening blood. The water had turned a deep,
light-drinking Bordeaux, so dark it seemed to pull the very moonlight into its
depths. But it wasn't the color that stole the breath from my lungs; it was the
steam.
Massive plumes of thick, red-tinged vapor were rising from the shorelines,
