The clash was not quiet.
It was thunder written into marrow, light and shadow colliding with flame and memory.
The first wave of Throne-Bearers struck the stair like a storm. Spears bent time, unraveling moments to pierce before defense could rise. Shields erased wounds, turning blood back into flesh. Voices sang decrees that bent gravity, flinging entire ranks of spectral flames into the abyss.
But the chorus answered.
The erased did not fight as mortals. They fought as embers of defiance, each strike not bound by body but by memory itself. A blade of fire might break under decree, but the memory of the blade—how it was once swung, how it once killed—burned on, remade again and again. For every erased flame shattered, three more rose in its place, each singing louder, each burning brighter.
