Page 135 of The Last Remaining Light

Caelyn released it immediately, recoiling and breathing hard.

Alyra glanced at him once, her eyes sharpening. Even now, amid the chaos, she was assessing. Observing. Probably filing away anything that might matter later.

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes finding Lora as relief fell across her features.

Caelyn looked startled by the words, and Lora stared at them. “Are we thanking the terrifying frost murderer now?”

“Yes,” Alyra snapped. “When it saves your life.”

Lora considered that for a beat before nodding solemnly. Then she looked at Caelyn. “That is fair. Thank you, terrifying frost murderer.”

Caelyn stared at her, looking uncertain how one was supposed to respond to that.

“...my name is Caelyn.”

Elowynn would have laughed if the sound of another collapse had not torn through the district.

The walkway beneath them heaved. A jagged crack ripped across the stone ahead, splitting the fleeing crowd with a sound like breaking bones. The group stopped as the fracture widened, swallowing half the street into a pit of darkness below. People screamed and scrambled backward. A man slipped near the edge, fingers clawing desperately at broken stone before two strangers caught his arms and dragged him back.

Elowynn’s mind moved faster than her body.

The west route was gone.

The south bridge had collapsed earlier.

The transit gallery ahead might still connect to the archive annex if the lower bridge held.

“We need to cut through the Council exchange,” she said.

Alyra’s head whipped toward her. “That is not an evacuation route.”

“No,” Elowynn said, already turning. “Which means fewer people will be choking it.”

They pushed left into a narrower passage bordered by old stone walls and shuttered offices belonging to minor Council clerks and observatory administrators. The buildings here had survived the first wave of destruction better than the open terraces, though several windows had blown inward and smoke curled beneath doors where fires had started inside.

At the end of the passage, voices carried through the chaos.

Not screaming or shouting. Orders.

Elowynn slowed, the rest of the group following suit.

Through the smoke-shrouded archway ahead, she saw Korvel Thorne standing at the center of the Council exchange square with half a dozen guards and several officials around him. His gala polish was gone. His dark coat had been torn at one sleeve, ash streaked one side of his face, and blood marked his temple where something had struck him.

He stood composed, issuing calm, precise orders to the guards.

“Seal the northern walks,” he ordered.

One of the guards stared at him. “There are still people on it.”

Korvel’s expression didn't change, but Elowynn saw his jaw tighten from where she stood.

“If that suspension falls into the central bridge, we lose the entire lower evacuation route. Seal it.”

The guard hesitated.

Korvel turned on him then, and whatever the man saw in his face made him move.

Elowynn felt the world slow around her as the implication became clear.