The air inside the room was heavy, saturated with the metallic scent of blood and the cold, lingering ozone of a thousand broken promises. Zeven stood motionless in the center of the chamber, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps as he stared at the shards of the silver mirrors scattered across the polished floor. The silence was absolute, a stark contrast to the chaotic roar of the presence that had filled his mind only moments before. He felt the cold, lingering weight of the iron mask still fused to his features, a permanent addition to his physical form that felt less like a garment and more like a second skin.
"It is done," he whispered, his voice resonating with a depth that felt alien to his own ears.
He looked down at the pedestal, seeing the empty space where the mask had r
