The "Real" world did not welcome us back with open arms. It greeted us with the
stinging slap of a Northern gale and the suffocating weight of an atmospheric
pressure that felt like being buried in cold, damp wool. As the Dawn-Seeker
crossed the final meridian away from the golden delusions of Orizon, the liquid
gold of the Sea of the Horizon faded into a choppy, slate-grey expanse of
freezing saltwater. The citrus-scented warmth of Hestos's kingdom was replaced
by the honest, brutal aroma of the North: wet stone, ancient pine, and the
persistent, metallic tang of the Living Silver mines.
I stood at the prow, my hands gripping the railing until the splinters of the
weathered oak bit into my palms. My skin, once shimmering with the pearlescent
glow of a goddess, was now ivory, scarred, and sensitive. I felt the cold in my
bones—a deep, rhythmic ache that reminded me I was no longer a vessel for the
eternal sun. I was Elara, and I was mortal.
