The sky bled in colors not known to mortals. Reality frayed where Ethan and Ashtora had stood, fought, and reshaped existence with every swing, clash, and thought. Mountains lay cracked open like eggshells. Valleys had turned into canyons. Rivers of molten psychic ash flowed between the splinters of once-pristine mindstone monoliths.
Ashtora was staggering.
Her glowing form pulsed erratically, flickering in and out of focus as her psychic structure struggled to hold. Ethan stood before her—blood-drenched but not broken, light swirling around him like obedient stars. His blade hung loose in his hand, no longer necessary.
She screamed—not in fear, but in defiance.
And then, she invoked her final rite.
The Crown of the Forgotten Mind.
