Her collarbones ache; her skin burns blindingly. Light floods her veins, devouring the dark blemishes of her skin; the imperfections of their Tailoring blisters away beneath her beams of anger as Sankta Alina reclaims what the shadows had thieved so brutally from her. Alina stands on the precipice of the remnants of the Fold and burns it into flame, spreading it as far and wide like hungry wildfire and feasts on the dark and damned cities beyond.