Roselia, still kneeling, planted her emberblade tip-first into the stair to hold herself steady. Her eyes glowed with both fear and reverence as she whispered, "No one has ever struck down a Throne… Leon, you've made war with eternity itself."
Leon did not answer immediately. His chest rose and fell like a bellows, each breath fanning the chorus-fire that clung to him. His gaze lifted—beyond the crumbling echoes of the Inviolate, to the breach above.
The rift seethed. Chains uncoiled downward, their links vast enough to strangle worlds, engraved with judgments that pulsed like beating hearts. Behind them, shadows shifted—each vaster than the first, each carrying a weight different from law but no less absolute.
The crowns were stirring.
Roselia's grip tightened on her sword. "They won't come one by one now. You've forced their hand."
Roman spat blood onto the stair and smirked. "Good. Let them all march. Better to burn in the open than rot under their boots."
