The sky over Aethelburg was a maelstrom of black clouds and screaming shadow-creatures. Lyra stood on the observation deck of the highest spire, the wind whipping her cloak around her. The city's last defenses were failing. The resonance cannons had fallen silent, their crystalline energy sources drained by the oppressive, life-sapping aura of the Dead Wind. Her personal guard, the brave sky-sailors of her Queen's Own, were engaged in a desperate, ship-to-ship battle with winged nightmares in the churning clouds below. They were losing.
'This is it,' she thought, her hand resting on the hilt of her cutlass. The void power Nox had gifted her so long ago was a small, cold knot in her chest. It was a power of quiet potential, of subtle change. It was not a weapon for a war like this.
A figure materialized on the deck beside her. It was the Dramaturg, his porcelain mask a perfect, smiling mockery in the face of her despair.
