The atmosphere in the throne room was no longer just heavy; it was suffocating.
Outside, the metallic shrieks of possessed weapons clashing against stone echoed through the city, but inside, the silence between the three of them was louder. Gwen stood at the edge of the balcony, her hands still shimmering with that eerie, dual-toned light—white solar fire laced with the black ink of necromancy.
Below, Kaelen collapsed to one knee. He was a shadow of the proud commander who had once hunted them. His silver armor, once polished to a mirror finish, was blackened by void-fire and dented by impacts that would have killed a lesser man. He breathed in ragged, wet gasps, his eyes never leaving Gwen.
"Lucien," Gwen whispered, her voice trembling. "He's dying. We have to help him."
