The explosion didn't sound like a bomb. It sounded like a gasp.
A blinding, white shockwave of pure mana and pulverized steel expanded outward from the point of impact. It wasn't hot; it was cold—the chill of a soul abruptly vacating its vessel.
I was thrown backward. The force of the detonation snapped the bones in my forearms, flinging me through the air like a ragdoll. I tumbled end-over-end, the sky spinning wildly around me—grey clouds, black dreadnoughts, purple miasma.
I slammed into the invisible barrier of the atmosphere, skidding to a halt miles away.
My hands were empty.
No. Not empty.
I looked down. My fingers were still curled tight, locked in a rigor mortis grip around a hilt wrapped in burnt leather. But above the crossguard, there was nothing. No steel. No edge. Just a jagged, molten stump of metal that glowed with a dying orange heat.
"Valeria..." I choked out, the name tasting like ash in my mouth.
The air in front of me shimmered.
