The morning sun crested the jagged teeth of the Northern Divide, bathing the grey castle walls of Fort Karst in pale, winter-gold light.
On the highest watching platform of the northern watchtower, Ren Prime stood beside Mira.
The mountain gale was cold enough to bite through wool. But up here, above the smoke of the camp kitchens and the ringing anvils of the lower bailey, the air had the crystal-clear purity of deep well-water.
Mira leaned against the dark rock crenellation. Her agile left hand held a small piece of dried apple that Brother Ren had smuggled from the hospice stores. Her right shoulder, collarbone, and arm—now fully transmuted into flawless, smoky quartz—glowed warmly in the dawn sun. Within the semi-clear stone lattice of her flesh, tiny fissures of pale violet light pulsed with a slow, steady beat.
As the wind gusted across the tower, the quartz caught the draft.
A faint, ghostly chime echoed from her shoulder. A clear, sweet ringing note that sounded like a silver flute played in an empty cathedral. It was neither painful nor jagged. It was the quiet, terrifying music of a body steadily surrendering its biology to the stone laws of the earth.
