After recovering from their shock, the three of them stood in the skies of a now empty secret realm.
All the loot had been taken and copied by Ash, along with every life sentenced to death. The air still carried the faint aftertaste of ozone and scorched essence, the void around them unnaturally quiet now that the clamor of battle had been silenced forever.
Floating islands drifted aimlessly in the distance, cracked and broken, their once-glowing forges reduced to dull, smoldering husks. Sylvie stood slightly in front of Ash as she eyed Kaelthyr with cold, protective intensity, her reddish-pink eyes narrowing, wings half-spread in readiness, sword still gripped loosely at her side.
"Master… who is he?" she asked, voice low and edged with frost, the words carrying an unmistakable promise of violence if the answer displeased her.
