The Gilded Coast was no longer a prison of clockwork gold, but it had not yet
returned to being a sanctuary. As the golden silk threads of Vagus's web
dissolved into a fine, sparkling ash, the shifters of the West stood on the
docks in a state of profound, hollow shock. They were no longer puppets, but for
many, the sudden return of their own autonomy was more terrifying than the
strings. To have every movement calculated by a god is a form of peace; to have
to decide the next step for oneself is the true weight of the "Real."
I stood on the deck of the Dawn-Seeker, watching the white butterflies of the
King's defeat carry the last of the mechanical rhythm away into the clouds. My
hands were steady, but the Broken Gear mark on my left palm was pulsing with a
cold, silver light that felt like a needle tapping against my bone. It wasn't
the heat of the forge or the tectonic roar of the earth; it was the sharp,
clinical sting of a legal summons.
