Then, finally, he spoke.
Not loud. Not soft. Just certain.
"They've built this place well."
He stepped forward again, and the Expanse shifted beneath him, welcoming the only thing left in it that still moved by will instead of design.
The godless crucifix did not answer right away.
He stood perfectly still, the silence between them settling into the Expanse. The ball of light in his left hand—the half-soul—trembled again. Not from fear. From strain. From presence. It had no eyes, no face, no body, and still, he could feel it looking back at him.
He turned his wrist slightly, letting the soul's glow spill across his palm. Blue light slid over the red mist at his feet and traced thin reflections across the obsidian tiles below. A pulse pushed through his fingers. Resistance. Still alive. Still trying.
When he spoke, his voice came low.
"You're not in a place souls were meant to reach."
