"Just thinking about dinner," I had said, and as we stepped off the final stone stair of the High Altar and into the flickering lantern light of Aethelgard's central district, dinner was the only thing keeping my legs moving.
The emerald glow that had saved the world was fading into a soft, ambient twilight, leaving the city looking like a dream that was slowly waking up to a nightmare. The white stone of the buildings was intact, but the silence was heavy. Elven healers were moving through the streets in hushed groups, their robes stained with the grey ash of the defeated Blight. Occasionally, a branch would creak overhead—a massive, miles-long limb settling back into place after lashing out at the Covenant fleet.
