The World Had Changed Frequency
The rumble of roots, the screams of soldiers, the clash of steel—all of it merged into a distant hum, muffled by the vibrant silence filling Élisa.
It was no longer anger guiding her.
It was a cold, terrible clarity.
The blue light emanating from her wasn't a flame, but a depth—like the ocean of night had poured into her blood. Beneath her skin, where sweat and blood had carved their paths, a new map appeared. The sigils—those latent runes that had long marked her arms—awoke. They spread, sinuous and unyielding, like roots turned inside out. Geometric lines of alien origin crept across the backs of her hands, over her palms, and climbed along her shoulders, covering her shoulder blades in a pulsating, intricate network.
It was an armorial from another world—a codex of power finally awakening.
The Wooden Mask, tilted in a gesture of unsettling reverence, watched. His interest was no longer merely tangible—it was devouring.
