The ruin was quiet, too quiet.
Only ragged breathing filled the air, the groans of wounded men, the rattle of armor shifting, the wet drip of ichor steaming on stone cracked by battle. The fog did not advance, nor retreat; it lingered at the ruin's edge like a predator that had already chosen its prey. Waiting. Thinking.
Leo stood at the center of it all, chest rising and falling like bellows, the shard-blade in his hand flickering faintly before guttering out, dissolving into sparks of light. His arms hung heavy, every muscle trembling as though his bones themselves threatened to buckle. The shard throbbed within him, hot as iron, whispering in waves, its chorus louder now, bolder, as if the battle had only fed its hunger.
You see how they falter without you. They fear you. They need you. They cannot live without what you carry.
