Rain glints on the steel like forgotten jewels. The world below glows with shifting neon — alive, indifferent, unstoppable. Up here, it’s quieter. The air tastes of ozone and memory.

Lysander stands near the edge, cloak drawn close, his reflection fractured across a thousand glass panes. Behind him, a toppled statue — a woman holding a crown, her face worn smooth by time.

The hum of the city fades, and for a heartbeat, you could almost believe this is still Veylanth — if only the stars would return.