The night sky cracked across Port Haven's light-polluted skyline.
Well, technically, this was Pravya’s skyline, Ossa's lost port of trade. Some people still called her that—Pravya. In her prime, historical structures had decorated the skyline, a story of a centuries old culture that, with its ancient roots, gave the native population a foundation for their fables, their practices, their entire lives. Buildings triggered fond stories, memories; temples reminded the people of the old gods that languished in fringe religions and antiquity; marketplaces were clouded with the spices of nostalgia, the smell of a grandmother’s kitchen in a child’s mind.
Now, Amstead had conquered her. Amstead gave her a new name more palatable to their mother tongue: Port Haven. They pushed her people toward the center where her river of anguish ran through her, put those who loved her most in the path of her floodwaters. They built her a new body, a new face where they’d shattered her, replaced her mythology with knives, jagged skyscrapers all sharp edges and mirrors. Glass and iron and marble stood tall and unyielding against a skyline that still, even after sixty years, mourned the bombs that had robbed Pravya’s heart of a million Ossan pulses. And just like them, Kasse Sejan was absolutely fucked.
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