Hours before the border burned, Aurora perched atop Berkimhum's highest tower, her silver hair catching the wind like tattered silk banners. The cold stone pressed into her thighs as she sat cross-legged, motionless, save for the tremble in her jaw. Her eyes—twin shards of raw mana—glowed with strain, veins along her temple pulsing faintly. She was the medium, the living conduit for all communication in the kingdom now, her many trials finally bearing fruit. Not a title, but a torment.
The air smelled of scorched herbs and salt—the spell's reagents burned nearby to keep her synapses from frying completely. Aurora blinked hard. Fifty percent of her brain was gone, hijacked by the web of threads connecting every outpost, soldier, scribe, and scout. Her thoughts swam in the hum of voices, thousands of them. Orders. Screams. Lies. Whispers. She had no silence anymore.
