The blast didn't destroy the summit.
It erased it.
Not in fire or flame—just cleanly cut away, as if reality had agreed to move aside and let something else in.
When the light cleared, Alaric stood at the edge of what used to be the mountain's crown, surrounded by dust that didn't fall, by gravity that didn't pull. Kira stood beside him, silent, her presence oddly stabilizing. Seraphine, Kaelion, Astra, and Mira hovered just a few steps back, each stunned in their own way—not by what had happened, but by what they were now looking at.
It had form. Almost human. But not flesh. The shape hovering in the air was made of interwoven light and structure, a lattice of shifting lines and ancient symbols that flickered in and out like memory replayed too many times. Its "face," if you could call it that, was a smooth surface rippling with Alaric's own features—warped, perfect, smiling without lips.
No one spoke.
No one breathed too loud.
