The Blue Gardens of Ao-Teien, Region 078. Morning of the Same Day

  The sirens howled, tearing through the silence like a blade. Sleep-shrouded minds hesitated. Was it a drill? A mistake? For a few moments, no one moved. People stirred in their beds, waiting for the sound to stop. Surely, it was a mistake. Then, the loudspeakers crackled to life, and a frantic male voice shouted something indistinct, words blurring together in a single wave of noise.

  Somewhere in the darkness, dogs began to howl.

  Light sleepers and the anxious were the first to step outside, their faces pale. They turned their eyes toward the Potern in the distance, where red warning lights pulsed ominously. A line of smaller lights stretched behind them—the queue of departing transport ships already forming.

  And then the screaming began.

  Women rushed to cradles, grabbing their children, while men seized whatever valuables they could carry. People fumbled in the dark, knocking over furniture, trying to make sense of a reality that had shifted in an instant. They had grown too comfortable, too accustomed to safety. They weren’t ready for this.

  What they left behind, they would never see again.

  The night was warm and thick with the scent of damp leaves and blooming trees. The crickets had gone silent. In the orchards, birds clung motionless to their perches. The earth itself seemed to hold its breath. Only the sirens and the desperate voices of those who had grasped the truth filled the air.

  They ran, stumbling over uneven ground, pressing forward through narrow paths between orchards. By the time they reached the gates, they were no longer a village, but a desperate tide. Some clung to blankets, others carried small bundles of food, as if a handful of bread could protect them from what was coming. Crying children were hoisted onto shoulders to keep them from being trampled. They merged with others from neighboring villages, fear uniting them as they surged forward.

  On the other side of the open portal, soldiers waited. Tall floodlights cast stark white beams over the stone platform, their harsh glow making the arriving crowd appear even smaller. More people poured through, blinking against the brightness, their feet dragging on the cobblestones as they stepped onto unfamiliar ground.

  Under the great arch of the Potern gate, its golden carvings glinting under the artificial light, the refugees pressed close, jostling for space. The sheer scale of the Confederate Transportation System lay beyond.

  Towering support pillars stretched into the sky, suspending passenger and cargo platforms at different levels. Ships hovered above, docking in a careful rhythm to avoid collisions. On the highest levels, vessels carrying precious goods and noble passengers veered off into private routes, untouched by the chaos below.

  The Crimson Wolves had already secured the portal. Soldiers barked orders, their voices cutting through the noise, herding people into controlled lines. Medical teams moved efficiently, inspecting the new arrivals, while field clerks hurried to record their names. The refugees were more than just bodies—they were numbers, to be processed and relocated.

  Beyond the organized chaos, one figure stood motionless, watching, calculating. Ayzel Volt, Right Falconet of the Crimson Hand, was not a man who succumbed to disorder. His sharp gaze cut through the disorder, taking in every movement, every irregularity. Where his soldiers provided order, he provided purpose. If the Protectorium had sent someone of his rank, it meant the situation was critical.

  Tall, composed, and effortlessly commanding, Ayzel was a figure people instinctively trusted. He had an easy confidence, the kind that inspired hope even in the face of disaster. He was everything a leader should be—efficient, composed, and above all, reliable. The kind of man who made others believe they would survive, even if the truth said otherwise.

  Rumors followed him wherever he went, whispered behind closed doors and among junior officers. That Menno Lyuteakh—the legendary Crimson Hand—trusted Ayzel more than his own son. That Ayzel, not the younger Lyuteakh, was the future of the Protectorium.

  The truth didn’t matter. What mattered was that people believed it.

  Beyond the gates, the Blue Gardens of Ao-Teien—once vibrant with fruit orchards and sprawling vineyards—were already gone. The finest wineries in the Confederation, the estates of noble families, the countless workers who had come in search of opportunity—reduced to an empty memory before dawn.

  Four hours earlier, the computational centers had detected a catastrophic rise in Schism levels. Emergency alerts were sent to the region’s aristocracy, its business elite, and the governing branches of the Protectorium. The response had been immediate: the evacuation was ordered. The shipments of rare goods were prioritized. The Potern remained open long enough for the wealth of the region to escape before its people were even roused from their beds.

  The military had arrived nearly an hour later, by which time the blight was already seeping through the land. The infection moved in silence, its presence invisible at first. By the time the sirens had sounded, it was already too late for many.

  They had been breathing it in. Absorbing it through their skin.

  The young and strong clung to their normalcy, but others—pregnant women, the elderly, the sick—had already begun to change. The process was slow, at first. Just enough for some to wonder if it was exhaustion, if the dizziness in their limbs and the numbness in their fingers was simply a trick of the early morning air.

  By the time they realized, there would be nothing left of them to save.

  Ayzel exhaled slowly, watching as the fifteenth vessel slipped through the gate, its metallic hull reflecting the soft hues of the sunrise.

  Fifteen ships, laden with crates of expensive alcohol, raw materials, and other valuable cargo, stood neatly arranged on the platform. Among them, a few polished vessels, sleek and refined, bore the sigils of nobility, queued for their leisurely departure deeper into Teak-An.

  The sirens in the villages had sounded only after the most important shipments had left.

  "Bastards," Ayzel muttered under his breath, his lips twisting into a grim smile.

  He had personally stationed his men at the gates, ensuring that the evacuation proceeded in an orderly manner. People were directed toward the quarantine zone, where the Salamanders—medics of the Copper branch—conducted thorough inspections.

  The Salamanders examined eyes, teeth, and nails, running scanner bracelets over wrists and necks, searching for signs of distortion. Some were waved through, allowed to continue, while others were quietly led away to makeshift tents. The process was systematic, efficient—yet the number of those redirected was far greater than anyone wanted to admit.

  From atop a raised platform, an official herald droned a pre-recorded announcement, his voice echoing over the uneasy crowd:

  "His Excellency, the High Chancellor, expresses his care and concern for the citizens of the afflicted provinces. By decree, all evacuees must undergo mandatory inspection for signs of corruption. The Crimson Brothers are authorized to prevent the spread of the blight and will safeguard you from further danger. You will be screened, and those found free of Schism will be granted passage on the evacuation convoys. Those affected will receive medical care from the Brothers of the Copper Hand."

  Scattered murmurs rippled through the mass of refugees—some skeptical, others fearful—but most accepted their fate in silence.

  "Stay calm!" barked the soldiers. "Line up for inspection! No inspection, no rations, no transport! Keep order!"

  Nearby, transport units rumbled, prepared to ferry evacuees away from the crumbling remains of their lives.

  Meanwhile, Morveyn had finally broken free from the tangled web of the CTR, slipping through a minor portal that led directly toward Ao-Teien. On the navigation screen, the marker representing his omnimobile detached from the thick blue path of the standard route, shifting onto a thin yellow line—a direct but perilous shortcut. The incessant droning of the dispatcher, which had been buzzing in his earpiece all morning, at last fell silent.

  Like all Crimson Wolves, Morveyn had received the emergency signal that morning. He had spent the past week at Countess Ubor’s estate, and to his surprise, the alert had reached him despite his usual detachment from field operations. His father had long since cut him off from the Protectorium’s operational channels—fieldwork was Ayzel’s domain, and he excelled at it. Morveyn was expected to stay out of the way. But a distress call of this magnitude must have gone out across all channels, and he had been unable to sit still.

  His "mission" in Te-Algeize was all but complete—the countess, infatuated like a lovestruck girl, was ready to sign anything he placed in front of her. But if there was one lesson he had learned, it was that leaving too soon was a mistake. If a man abandoned a woman while the sheets were still warm, she might reconsider her affections. Even so, he had contacted Ayzel immediately, informing him that he would be on-site within hours. Ayzel, though surprised, had welcomed the reinforcement—he despised relying on the Salamanders, knowing that any failures would ultimately fall on the Protectorium, even if another branch was responsible. He hadn’t even asked if Menno had approved the detour—leaving that responsibility squarely on Morveyn’s shoulders.

  Menno, of course, had not approved it. He had received immediate notice that his son had left Te-Algeize aboard his personal transport, the mission unfinished and without filing a formal report. The blinking light of the command frequency pulsed insistently on Morveyn’s console, signaling incoming calls from headquarters. He ignored them. They could demand answers all they wanted—nothing could be done about it now. He would face his father’s wrath when he returned to Hawk’s Nest that evening. And if he had to take a beating, he might as well make the trip worth it.

  There had been no suitable omnimobiles in the countess’s extravagant fleet. The manufacturers of aristocratic vehicles prioritized elegance and comfort over practicality. A machine built to impress at court had no business navigating unstable regional portals. That left Morveyn with only one option—his personal train unit. By the time he reached Nao-Rei’s backwater station, the emergency had only worsened. He had thrown his weight around, frightened the locals, and managed to wrangle an old omnimobile from the maneuverable reserves. It wasn’t state-of-the-art, but it was sturdy—clearly commandeered by the local chief for personal use rather than official duties. The interior was well-worn, decorated with small lace curtains on the windows and rows of saintly icons cluttering the dashboard. Whether the icons had kept the vehicle from falling apart or if, by some miracle, the machine had simply been built to last twenty years ago, he couldn’t say—but it had held up.

  The journey had been brutal. He cut through minor stations whenever possible, making nearly twenty jumps between regions to avoid wasting precious hours on the designated CTR pathways. A healthy person might endure up to five jumps without issue. Regional portals, however, were notoriously unstable due to their smaller size and inadequate maintenance. By the time he reached Ao-Teien, his hands ached from gripping the controls, nausea churned in his stomach, and his breakfast pastry threatened rebellion. Endless spirals through half-wild burrows, barely maintained by regional authorities, would make anyone sick. And Morveyn, lacking both an iron constitution and extensive piloting experience, was no exception.

  More evacuees trickled in, their numbers swelling. The air grew thick with tension. Everyone could feel it—that something terrible was coming. They just didn’t want to admit it.

  "What is he waiting for?" muttered Sir Asgold, an older field medic overseeing the inspections. He had seen wounds and bruises, but no overt signs of blight. To him, the hesitation made no sense. The mist hadn’t swallowed them yet—there was still time. "Why is he stalling?"

  He stepped closer, addressing the falconet in a respectful but firm tone. "My lord, the destruction came suddenly, but the evacuation is proceeding. We’ve separated the afflicted, the healthy are ready for transport. The units are waiting."

  Ayzel’s jaw tightened. "There are hundreds here. I can’t risk even a single distorted individual making it to the cities. We wait for Junior Lyuteakh before we move."

  Sir Asgold bristled. "You believe the young lord will see something an entire team of trained medics has missed?"

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  Ayzel’s gaze was like stone. "This is not the time for professional pride, Sir Asgold."

  The older man exhaled sharply, looking toward the restless crowd. "How much longer must we wait? The people are tired. Fearful. If we delay much longer, we risk riots."

  "Isolate the suspected cases. The rest is my concern."

  Every minute wasted was another risk.

  Ayzel’s fingers tapped against the edge of his holster as he kept his gaze locked on the Potern gates. The longer they waited, the worse this would get. He needed another set of eyes—someone who could see what the Salamanders couldn’t.

  But that someone was Junior Lyuteakh.

  And Junior Lyuteakh, for all his sharp mind and unnatural instincts, had spent more time at war with his own father than on any battlefield.

  Ayzel had no doubts that Morveyn wanted to be here. The problem was that Menno didn’t want him here. And for all the authority Morveyn carried as Left Falconet, for all the quiet, precise ways he knew how to bend rules without breaking them—he couldn’t disobey Menno Lyuteakh.

  Not as a son.

  Ayzel knew the hold Menno had on him. He had watched it happen for years—watched a man who could outmaneuver seasoned politicians and war criminals alike be reduced to a caged thing with clipped wings, never allowed to step outside the boundaries set for him. If it had been the Crimson Hand ordering him to stay out of this, Morveyn might have found a way around it.

  But this wasn’t about politics. It was about Menno. And Menno had spent years swallowing his son’s life whole, never giving him an inch of real freedom.

  And yet—Ayzel had waited.

  Every instinct had told him to send the convoy the moment the Salamanders cleared them. But he had held off. Because his colleague, his friend, had said he would be here. And after years of working side by side, after battles fought in places no one else dared to look—he trusted him.

  So he had gambled precious time on that trust, risking efficiency on the belief that Morveyn wouldn’t fail him.

  Then, with a thud that rattled the landing strip, a battered omnimobile slammed onto the platform, kicking up dust as its stabilizers groaned in protest.

  Ayzel let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

  "Well, well. Guess someone finally chewed through his leash."

  The battered Bumblebee spat out its passenger.

  Morveyn Lyuteakh practically stumbled out of the omnimobile, his boots hitting the platform with a jarring thud. His vision swam for a second, the world tilting as if he had landed on a ship rather than solid ground. Jumps through the CTR had carved through him like a dull blade, leaving behind an ache that thrummed in his bones, his stomach twisted into tight knots of nausea. His hands, stiff from gripping the controls, barely obeyed when he pressed his palm against the side of the vehicle to steady himself.

  A sharp, metallic tang filled his mouth. He exhaled through gritted teeth, blinking hard.

  A thin trickle ran from his nose, dark against his pale skin, pooling along his upper lip before he wiped it away with the back of his gloved hand. He sniffed sharply, willing himself to ignore the way his ears still rang from the jumps, the deep-set exhaustion coiling at the base of his skull. His body was screaming at him to stop, to breathe, to let the world stop spinning—but he was here now.

  With a quiet, irritated click of his tongue, Morveyn straightened and rolled his shoulders, forcing himself upright. He had no time for this.

  The low hum of approaching footsteps pulled him back into focus. Ayzel’s voice rang out over the chaos.

  "Mor, my friend, you’re finally here!"

  Morveyn wiped the blood from his nose, tasting iron at the back of his throat. His smirk was thin, humorless.

  "Twenty jumps through hell to to grace you with my miserable presence. Let's get to work."

  Ayzel took one look at him and frowned. "Gods, you look like shit."

  "You should see the other guy," Morveyn muttered dryly, nodding toward the omnimobile, where a faint smear of red stained the control panel. "I think it hates me more than I hate it."

  Ayzel cast a dubious glance at the machine. "You drove this thing?"

  Morveyn exhaled through his nose, shooting him a look of dry amusement. "With a little help from above," he said, nodding toward the dashboard, where small saintly icons lined the control panel like desperate passengers clinging to a lifeline.

  Running a gloved hand through his hair, Morveyn let his gaze drift. "So, the Blue Gardens are gone," he murmured. "I was supposed to visit Marquis Orni’s vineyards in a few weeks. What a bloody mess."

  "The Salamanders have inspected nearly everyone, but I’ve delayed sending the convoy. I want your take before we move them," Ayzel said without preamble, gripping Morveyn’s shoulder and steering him toward the medical tents.

  Morveyn sighed, catching a sharp glare from Sir Asgold. "I have a feeling we shouldn’t rely too much on them."

  He pulled at the knot of his glove, undoing it with practiced ease. As the damp leather peeled away, the world around him sharpened—like lifting a veil from his senses. Every sound, every movement, every flicker of light became more distinct. Green-tinged mist pulsed outward from the gaping maw of the Potern, stretching through the camp in slow, undulating waves. Here and there, in the shifting haze of the crowd, tendrils of sickly luminescence unfurled, invisible to any but him. Morveyn didn’t see them with his eyes, not exactly—he felt them, like heat and cold, like the rush of air before a storm. His mind, struggling to translate raw instinct into something tangible, painted the distortion into his vision. Even if he were blind, he would have known it was there. He would have smelled it, tasted it—this suffocating presence of the Schism.

  "The old man’s glaring at me again. He’ll start ranting that my decisions come from thin air," Morveyn muttered.

  Ayzel huffed. "Don’t pay him any mind. We can’t risk even one distorted slipping through. His Excellency wouldn’t tolerate it."

  "The Salamanders can spot the flowers of the blight, but they miss its seeds. We should call for Sir Saags—he’s respected among them. If he confirms my findings, there won’t be any objections."

  Ayzel muttered a curse under his breath. "Politics. We should be saving people, not collecting signatures."

  Morveyn let out a dry, mirthless chuckle. "Welcome to my world."

  Further down the camp, grim-faced evacuees waited in long lines. Beyond them lay the quarantine zone, and further still—dark, armored vans lined up like silent sentinels. Their sealed windows and reinforced doors glowed with containment sigils, a stark reminder that sometimes, even rescue came with an expiration date.

  At Ayzel’s signal, the first group of cleared evacuees moved toward the transport units. The air was thick with whispered prayers and restrained relief. The process moved quickly, but at a subtle gesture from Morveyn, twenty people were quietly pulled from the line and directed toward quarantine.

  Ayzel frowned. "That’s too many."

  Morveyn didn’t answer. His gaze had locked onto something beyond the Potern gates.

  His entire body went still. His fingers curled slightly, as though reaching for something unseen.

  "The real problem isn’t here," he said finally, voice eerily soft. "It’s over there. By the gates."

  Ayzel followed his gaze—and immediately understood.

  "I don’t think those vans will be enough," Morveyn continued. "It’s radiating. Badly."

  He froze for a moment, his eyes slightly widening as he stared at the scene. Then, without warning, he dashed into the crowd.

  "We need to hurry!" was all he shouted before disappearing.

  Ayzel swore and barked an order. "Send the convoy! Now!"

  Bursting into the control room with a force that sent technicians in mustard-yellow uniforms scrambling out of his way, Morveyn stormed inside without hesitation. The room was lined with instrument panels and monitoring screens, their displays flickering with real-time data, but none of them captured what he could see with his own eyes. The wide observation window overlooked the Potern, its grand, carved archway framing the constant stream of desperate evacuees pouring through. The engineers of the Golden Branch worked methodically at their stations, oblivious to the catastrophe unfolding beyond the limits of their instruments. This was their domain, and under normal circumstances, he would have had no authority here. But no one dared to block his path now.

  A fleeting thought crossed his mind—another headache to deal with later. Stirring up the ire of the Golden Branch would only add to his growing list of transgressions. He was walking the razor’s edge of his jurisdiction, pushing the limits of what his rank allowed. But the urgency of the moment left no room for caution. He had no time to explain what they were failing to perceive.

  They saw a flow of panicked refugees, desperate but seemingly unharmed. He saw something else entirely.

  The air beyond the gate shimmered with a sickly green luminescence, thickening until the glow became almost too bright to look at. Waves of invisible energy pulsed outward, distorting the very air. Every hair on Morveyn’s body stood on end, his skin crawling with the unnatural static charge of the Schism’s presence. The sensation was unbearable—an electric hum vibrating in his bones, warning of something vast and terrible just beyond the threshold. The countdown had already reached its final seconds.

  No one else could see it. That was the problem.

  The emergency shutdown lever was impossible to miss—encased in protective glass, marked in glaring red. He didn't need to understand the intricacies of portal mechanics to recognize its function. The operators on duty sprang up in alarm, instinctively moving to intervene, but they were too slow.

  With a swift motion, Morveyn pulled his Falconet's seal from his coat pocket. A Protectorium insignia of any kind wasn’t granted authority within the transportation system, but the distinct markings of his rank provided enough clearance. It was a gamble—his seal wasn’t technically valid for this action. But the system recognized it nonetheless, disengaging the lock with a sharp hiss. The emergency override accepted his credentials.

  Thank the Sleeper for small mercies.

  His fingers curled around the emergency lever, slick with sweat.

  It would take just one motion. A single pull, and the Potern would close. He knew what that meant—knew that hundreds, maybe thousands, of people still beyond the threshold would be sealed inside.

  The rational part of his mind screamed at him to stop, to calculate, to hesitate just a second longer. What if there was still a chance? What if… But there wasn’t.

  His grip tightened. He yanked the lever down.

  A piercing alarm shrieked through the control room as the failsafe engaged. The portal wavered, the ancient mechanisms of the Potern groaning as the transport pathways began their emergency shutdown sequence. The warning klaxon was deafening, but Morveyn barely heard it.

  Turning away on unsteady legs, he stumbled from the control room, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He needed air—desperately. But as he emerged onto the platform, the truth struck him with brutal clarity.

  There was no air left untainted.

  Ayzel barely had time to issue orders before the first scream rang out.

  The commotion at the gates spread like wildfire, igniting panic across the platform. He turned sharply, instincts kicking in before thought. Sir Asgold, huffing from exertion, was already moving, his face twisted in frustration and something else—fear.

  The Potern was changing.

  Within the massive oval gate, the view of the Blue Gardens flickered, the lush blue-tinged trees swaying in an unseen wind. And then, like a ripple on the surface of a lake, the image wavered. The colors bled, the world behind the portal bending, distorting.

  Ice slithered along the portal’s edge, tendrils spreading like veins under a frozen corpse. A whispering crackle filled the air—the sound of death crawling across the threshold. But the ice did not stop. It spread outward in intricate filigree, branches of silver threading together, solidifying the gate, sealing it shut.

  Ayzel’s voice cut through the chaos.

  "All Crimson Wolves, to your positions! Hold the perimeter!"

  The soldiers snapped to attention, moving as one, brooches on their uniforms pulsing with the command relayed through their earpieces. But even they could not hold back the rising tide of panic.

  People surged toward the closing gate, screaming, pleading. A desperate, frenzied stampede erupted as those still on the far side realized what was happening. They clawed at each other, scrambling for footing, pushing forward in a hopeless attempt to break through.

  The opening of the Potern, which had been like a window into another part of the world, began to dim. The icy sheen refracted the sunlight. Within moments, the frost from the edges extended toward the center, transforming into an impenetrable ice barrier. The frosty design finally closed in the middle of the portal, completely obscuring the last glimmers of the pre-dawn landscape behind an unyielding icy wall.

  The people were cut off, left stranded on the other side, pressing and trampling one another in a futile attempt to break through the barrier Some pressed their hands to the frozen gate, breath fogging against the ice. Others screamed, their voices raw, pleading. And then—nothing. No sound. No way through. Just silence and the finality of the void. The path to the Blue Gardens of Ao-Teien had been sealed.

  The horror of it sank in all at once. Some staggered backward, staring in disbelief. Others collapsed, sobbing into their hands. A man dropped to his knees, his gaze fixed on the dead gateway, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

  Ayzel’s grip on his weapon tightened. He turned toward the control hub, his jaw clenched. "What the hell just happened?"

  Static crackled in his earpiece, then a distorted voice.

  "Falconet Lyuteakh sealed the gate himself."

  Ayzel stiffened.

  Sir Asgold inhaled sharply beside him. "That’s not possible. He wouldn’t—"

  But before the words could fully form, the ground trembled.

  A deep, reverberating boom split the air, shaking the ground with a force that sent tremors through the platform. The impact surged up through Ayzel’s boots, rattling his bones, while dust and grit burst from the cracks in the stone. A sharp ringing filled his ears, drowning out the first panicked cries. The very air seemed to vibrate, thick with pressure, as if the world itself recoiled from the rupture beyond the gate.

  The shockwave hit like a fist. The platform shuddered, dust bursting from every crack. People stumbled, some falling to the ground, their hands thrown out to break their fall.

  Beyond the sealed gate, something was happening.

  The air on the other side of the frozen barrier rippled like heat over stone. Then, with a sound like tearing metal, the Blue Gardens fractured.

  The ground convulsed. Cracks spread like claw marks across the land, swallowing trees, homes, lives. The sky itself seemed to twist, recoiling from the horror unfolding below. The once-lush scenery collapsed inward, as if pulled into an invisible maw.

  For one terrible moment, it was all still visible through the translucent frost—a world in the process of dying.

  Then, the rupture surged outward.

  A pulse of force slammed against the frozen barrier, sending spiderweb cracks racing across its icy surface. The portal, which had moments ago been an eerie, glass-like window into another place, shattered completely. The crystalline frost dissolved into nothingness, leaving only empty space framed by the great stone arch.

  The Potern was now just an empty frame, a monument to a world that had ceased to exist. No portal. No gateway. Just a hollow ring, marking the point where hundreds of lives had vanished.

  The world on the other side no longer existed.

  The control room door slammed open. Morveyn stood there, his pale face nearly gray, his breathing ragged. His vision swam, but he forced himself to focus. The weight of what he had done—what he had chosen to do—pressed down on him, colder than the ice that had sealed the gate. There had never been time for explanations. No justifications. Only the weight of his choice, crushing him under its finality. His hands trembled, clenched at his sides.

  Ayzel didn’t hesitate. "Get him out of here. Now."

  A Laska transport was already being prepared, its sleek, dark exterior gleaming under the station’s lights. Security formed a barrier around the vehicle as Morveyn stumbled inside, barely managing to sit before the door shut behind him.

  The Wolves worked fast, holding the forming mob at bay.

  "Murderer!" The word cut through the night like a lash. Then another voice, raw with grief—"Coward!" A third joined, then a fourth. The cry became a chant, swelling with rage. The words cut through the night, sharp as blades.

  Ayzel turned, his expression unreadable. He understood better than anyone the weight of what had happened. If the gate had remained open, the Schism would have consumed them all. But logic meant nothing to grief. People needed someone to blame.

  And today, they had chosen their villain.