The spring that finally settled over the North was not the lush, emerald
explosion of the "Sanguine Age," nor was it the sterile, golden afternoon of the
"Hearth." It was a messy, wet, and defiant awakening. The Sanguine Range, once
mountains of literal red glass, had undergone a final chemical stabilization.
The ruby shards had melted into a rich, mineral-heavy silt that fed a new kind
of flora: Ghost-Pines with silver needles and Blood-Violets that bloomed in the
cracks of the obsidian.
The City of the Scar was no longer a collection of tents. It had become a
sprawling, tiered settlement of grey stone and iron-wood, clinging to the base
of the Obsidian Peak like a living barnacle. Smoke from a hundred domestic
hearths drifted through the streets, smelling of cedar and roasting grain. It
was the "Architecture of Peace," and it was loud, crowded, and perfectly
imperfect.
I stood on the newly constructed pier at the edge of the Blood-Crag bay. The
