The light of the branded sigil faded, but its weight remained—an unseen seal burned into the marrow of reality itself.
Then the arena stirred, as though exhaling after centuries of holding its breath. The cracked ceiling of stars dimmed, folding in on itself until only the cold stone roof remained. The shadows that had once been an audience were gone, leaving only silence—not oppressive, but reverent.
And in that silence, power answered.
From where the sigil had sunk, three threads of light rose—silver, emerald, and black. They coiled like serpents of radiance before each of them, waiting, asking.
Fenric's hand trembled as he reached forward, the silver thread slipping into his chest. His flames roared, but they were no longer wild. They flowed with crystalline clarity, silence woven into every flicker. He felt as though the very concept of stillness had chosen him as its vessel.
