The sky above Val-Khorat ceased to be weather and became an avalanche of shattered glass.
When the final six-sided keystone of the Grand Barrier Dome crumbled, the sound didn’t reach the ground as thunder. It struck the city as a nonstop, ear-splitting crystal-clear scream that shattered every window pane across five mountain terraces.
Great sheets of glowing blue force-field, fifty yards wide and glowing with unstable time star-fire, peeled away from the mountain peaks. They plummeted through the boiling storm clouds like falling sails of azure fire, slicing through the marble spires of the aristocracy with terrifying moving grace before exploding against the granite streets in blinding explosions of electric heat.
The palaces of the High Spires—built from white Istrian limestone, gold-trimmed cedar, and sheets of imported lapis lazuli—ignited in a matter of seconds.
From the northern botanical terrace, Ren Vale watched the destruction of the ruling class.
The Gilded Barricade had been breached. Master Corin and thirty dockworkers had dragged Magistrate Kaelen’s four heavy baggage wagons into the center of the avenue. Meanwhile, the mutinous junior court guards under Sergeant Vorn had thrown down their black surcoats, joining the refugee column as an armed rearguard.
Magistrate Kaelen was gone, his plum damask mantle lost in the mud as he fled on foot up the terrace road toward the Upper Citadel.
