The sky above Haven-Hold had become a frozen ceiling of pitch-black terror.
Sol-Aethel was fully blotted out. The twin moons had vanished behind fifteen miles of writhing, non-Euclidean deep-sea mass.
The cosmic entity hung suspended at forty-five thousand feet. Its giant dark shape cast a shadow that covered three entire provinces.
Across the city, street gas lamps flickered on automatically. Daylight turned into an unnatural, freezing midnight.
The air grew bitter cold, tasting of sulfur, static charge, and deep-space empty pocket.
In the public plazas, high priests of the sky stars tore their silk robes and poured handfuls of chimney soot over their heads.
‘The Epoch of Dust has arrived,’ a weeping hierarch cried from the steps of the grand fountain.
‘The Devourer of Stars, Mor’Zul the Unmaker, has come to feast upon the marrow of the world.’
