Lyra stood frozen as the silhouettes drew closer. Each figure moved with the fluid, unnatural grace of a predator. Their blades were forged from the same obsidian essence that now pulsed within her own veins. The silence of the void was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic thrumming of the Jantung Void that beat beneath the surface of the floating island.
Who are they, Malphas? Lyra demanded. Her voice cracked, betraying a fear she had long buried beneath layers of duty.
Malphas did not turn his head. He remained facing the encroaching shadows, his posture rigid as if carved from the very stone beneath their feet. They are the echoes of every soul this throne has ever consumed, he replied. His voice sounded hollow, like wind howling through a cavern. They represent the hunger that the
