The stair cracked beneath the weight of the descending presence.
The first Throne revealed itself—not as a figure of flesh, but as a geometry made living. A being sculpted of decrees and absolutes, its body a lattice of commandments, its eyes endless scrolls of unbroken law. Every step it took rewrote the stair, bending stone and marrow into perfect symmetry.
Its voice was not spoken but inscribed across reality:
"I am the Inviolate. I am the First Law. I am That Which Does Not Break."
The erased shuddered. Some flickered as if erased again, their embers gasping under the suffocating weight of permanence. Even Milim's violet fire recoiled for a heartbeat, her laughter choked into a growl.
But Leon stood unshaken. His flame flared, not brighter, but deeper—rooted in marrow, in memory, in defiance that no decree could silence.
He whispered, barely audible:
"…Then you will be the first to break."
The Inviolate raised its hand. A decree fell.
Not a spear. Not a shield. A word.
