The colossal fury of the Rowan's speech still vibrated in the cosmic firmament, a tremor of pure intent aimed at the hearts of the five beings who had orchestrated his ruin. His focus was a singularity of vengeance, drawing all light and hope into its crushing grip.
But for a single, fractured moment—a nanosecond stretched across a billion years by his own nature—the gaze of one of his targets flickered.
It was Xyris, the Silent, Primordial Time. Unlike the other Primordials who were filled with rage and fear, Xyris gaze could not leave his left arm that was painted with the blood of Primordial Soul.
In his eyes was a profound, ancient weariness, a sorrow so deep it was less an emotion and more a fundamental law of a broken universe. It was not fear of the impending battle. It was the echo of an older, deeper cataclysm, a regret that predated this specific hatred.
