There was a new caution to the way Zen moved around her that made Lan feel as though she were a barrel of firepowder that might explode at any time. Zen had led her to a natural courtyard, framed by outgrowths of rock and stone. The blood of sunset was fading, chased by a watery gray aftermath followed by ink-black night. Birdsong had been replaced by the steady chirp of cicadas through the brush. The entirety of Skies’ End was so beautiful Lan felt as though she’d sunk into a dream. A miracle. An impossibility.
