The silence that followed was worse than the roar.
Every fragment of the void seemed to lean in, every echo stilled as though the Tower itself had bent its endless body to hear a dying mortal's whisper.
The first shadow—its crown of splintered light burning brighter now—lowered its hand slowly, as if measuring the weight of Leon's defiance. The threads it had cast into his chest pulsed once, then stilled, not fading but binding.
Roselia spat blood into the void, her ember blade rising despite her trembling arm. "He said answer. So answer us, throne. Or are you too afraid to step down from your gilded seat?"
Naval barked a broken laugh, the sound half-rage, half-pride. "Aye. You felt it, didn't you? Your inevitability bled. And now you're listening to him."
The other Thrones stirred again, their voices fracturing the battlefield.
The wrathful one thundered: "This is blasphemy. Crush him where he lies."
