Zephyria glided silently through the absolute vacuum of deep space.
The floating black mountain was a tiny, insignificant speck against the sprawling, infinite canvas of the cosmos.
Behind them, the tragic, beautiful nebula of fire, rock, and ash, the shattered remains of the earth drifted slowly outward.
Lucifer stood on the high balcony of the central keep. He didn't wear his dark leather armor; he wore a simple, unadorned black tunic.
His right arm, previously a pulverized, smoking ruin, had been perfectly healed by the combined, desperate efforts of Lyra and Vexia while he was unconscious. It thrummed with faint, residual twilight and blood magic.
He rested his bare hands on the cold stone railing, looking out at the stars.
"The planet is gone," Lyra whispered, stepping onto the balcony.
The Dawn Saintess wore her sleek silver armor, but she moved with a quiet, profound exhaustion. She stared at the expanding nebula of their former home.
