The echo staggered three steps back.
Nysha's eyes widened. "He pushed it—actually pushed that thing—"
But the echo didn't seem hurt.
Only… intrigued.
Its chest split open wider.
And the core inside brightened.
The entire cavern tilted.
A wave of crushing presence rolled outward—the pressure of a deity's corpse, a remnant of a being that had once devoured faith itself.
Lindarion's knees hit the ground. His arms trembled. His gold-shadow helix flickered. The air thickened like tar, making every breath a fight.
Ashwing screamed, "DON'T LET IT IN YOUR HEAD—IT FEEDS ON DOUBT—"
Too late.
A vision slammed into Lindarion like a falling star:
His mother, Luneth—
not dying—
watching him with disappointment.
With fear.
"You shouldn't exist," the vision whispered.
"You bring disaster with you. You are the fracture in fate."
Lindarion's fingers dug into the stone.
"Fake," he snarled.
"You're not her."
But the echo swallowed his voice, drowning it under another illusion—
