The night had turned into day, if only for a minute or two, but that was more than enough to throw the entire Empire of Anbord into a whirlwind of panic, awe, and frenzied speculation.
A radiant golden sunburst had split the heavens, washing the land in light so blinding and divine that priests dropped to their knees mid-sermon, children pointed to the skies with wide, unblinking eyes, and cultivators felt their cores tremble as if something greater than fate itself had glanced their way.
Chaos brewed for a heartbeat. The people of Anbord were no fools—they knew something monumental had just occurred.
Thankfully, Trevor, ever the strategist, moved with uncanny speed. A flicker of shadow magic later and he was already in the main square of Antrim, speaking through a city-wide communication sigil, his voice crisp, calm, and annoyingly diplomatic:
"Do not be alarmed. The Emperor is simply… cultivating."
The pause between the words was slight but significant.
