The stair's fire deepened, no longer just burning—it pulsed like veins carrying the lifeblood of creation itself. Each ember flared with memory: the clash of Vorrak's hammer, the silence of Mirrosh's stillness, the cry of Vaer'Zhul's dreambane. Every duel, every echo Leon had endured and broken became threads in the stair, binding it not to a crown or decree, but to him.
The Tower's voice rose—not as words carved in law, but as resonance thrumming in marrow.
"Architect."
The sound rippled through the stair, through the husks of heaven and abyss, through every layer and echo that had once bowed to Thrones. It was not title. It was function. Demand.
Leon's flame flickered, answering instinctively. The word struck deeper than any decree. The Tower was not crowning him—it was surrendering to him. No longer ruler above or abyss below. Maker. Shaper.
Roselia's knees buckled as the emberblade dimmed, her eyes wide. "…It's not asking you to climb anymore. It's asking you to build."
