The first thing Calen saw when he opened his eyes was the Blood Moon’s crimson light sparkling in the stream’s shifting waters, battling against the purple glow that shone from the runes in his armour. The moon had hung in the dark sky since the night it had bled into the world. The sun rose and set each day, but its light was dim, as though tempered by Efialtír himself, the world painted with an unyielding crimson hue.
