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And now the unrealized futures of millions were scorched out of existence, like a sky full of stars suddenly darkened.
But she had felt it, precisely at the moment of eruption. She had triggered it. She had willed it into being. She had felt each one of those lives wink out of existence. She had felt the Phoenix’s exhilaration, experienced vicariously its frenzied bloodlust. She had destroyed an entire country with the power of her anger.
“I don’t know what happened to you in that temple,” he said. “But you are not Fang Runin.”
She mused out loud to the darkness as she sucked in that sickly sweet drug.
She was no victim of destiny. She was the last Speerly, commander of the Cike, and a shaman who called the gods to do her bidding. And she would call the gods to do such terrible things.
