The flood came.
From every skull, every brittle ribcage, every step frozen mid-climb, shadows spilled upward like smoke that refused to disperse. The plain became a storm of voiceless figures, all clawing, reaching, pressing forward with mouths stretched wide in mute agony.
Leon's marrow flame roared, jagged and uneven, answering them one by one. "I hear you." Every word he gave peeled another shadow from its silence, lifting it into light. But for each one that dissolved, ten more rose.
Naval bared his teeth in a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Figures. Damn choir doesn't end." His fists slammed into the ground, the shockwave not to destroy but to amplify. The echoes of his strikes rang like bells, booming across the plain. The shadows near him stilled, their heads turning toward the sound as if—finally—someone acknowledged their rhythm.
