Malphas stood amidst the debris of the obsidian throne, his form flickering like a dying candle between the physical world and the crushing gravity of the void. His skin, once bruised and pale, now bore thin, glowing lines of violet energy that pulsed in time with the shudders of the castle walls. He did not move with the grace of a king. He moved with the tectonic lethality of a landslide.
"You have no business in this realm, Valerius," Malphas said. His voice was a layered sound. His own human rasp overlaid with a chilling, echoing resonance that made the very air crystallize into frost.
Valerius leveled his blade of light, though his knuckles were white. The Architect had seen empires rise and fall, but he had never seen a mortal bridge the gap between existence and non-existence with
