The cold came first, before sight, before sound, before any other herald of what approached. It was a cold that transcended temperature, that bypassed the physical entirely and struck directly at the essence of warmth, of life, of the ember-fire that still burned—however corrupted—within Selena's throne-bound form. Dante felt it through their bond, felt Selena's corrupted flame recoil from something that shouldn't exist, that violated the fundamental principle that death was ending rather than transition.
The revenants sensed it too. Their bone-marrow forms drew back from the throne, creating a space, a circle of clear void around where Selena sat fused to her seat of authority. Their prayers faltered, their worship stuttering into uncertain silence as they felt the approach of something that commanded respect even from the damned.
