The world folds inward.
Corven's chest explodes outward—not from impact, but from absence. His core is devoured—his heart, soul, and aura pulled into a swirling pinprick of collapsing void at Zurrak's palm.
He doesn't scream.
There's no time.
His body collapses to the floor like a deflated husk. Still warm. Still wide-eyed. But gone.
Dead before he hit the stone.
Zurrak doesn't look at the body.
He turns—and lifts his hand.
Around the city, the signal echoes:
A single pulse of void magic—so faint it's barely more than a tremor.
To the Shadows, it means go.
And the massacre begins.
The first to die are the guards. Blades slide through their throats mid-sentence. Some vanish into alleyways, only to be found an hour later with their faces missing.
In the noble district, entire families are slaughtered in their beds—no screams, no struggle. Only blood on silk sheets and moonlight through open windows.
Priests vanish from the temples.
