We struck the ground not with stone, not with flesh, but with crowns—broken circlets jutting from an endless plain, shards of sovereignty turned to rubble. Every throne beneath us was shattered, every crown hollowed, their fragments crunching under our weight. Damon pulled me upright, blood still searing down his cheek, his Scar flickering like a storm barely held in his veins.
Before us, the heart of the god revealed itself. Not a heart of veins or muscle—but a black sun, spiraling and swallowing, a singularity that pulsed with hunger. Each beat dragged at my vesselhood, pulling the chains inside me tighter, as if it recognized me as its own.
Around that sun coiled the dead. Chains of shadow stretched outward from it, vanishing into infinity—each tether bound to every worshipper, every sacrifice, every prayer that had ever fed Veyrathuun. The air was alive with their whispers, thick as drowning fog.
"Nael vestra. Velmorr crown. Shael eternal."
