The pale man did not struggle as Rowan reached him.
He should have, but he did not. The fight, the flight, the desperate bargains—all of it had bled out of him, leaving behind a shell of absolute comprehension.
Eldrithor knelt on the cold, black volcanic rock, the rough texture biting into his bony knees. His head was bowed, not in submission, but in a final, exhausted acknowledgment of the geometry of his fate, knowing that the altar before him was not just stone; it was a destination.
'How could my end be like this?'
He could feel the silent, screaming resonance of Primordial Soul's unmaking soaking the air, a psychic patina of absolute violation that made his new, fragile form want to vomit. This was the place. There would be no other. This was a place where Primordials were butchered.
