Maryelle’s POV
I close my eyes, chasing silence. My breath steadies—inhale, exhale—until the palace walls dissolve, until the noise of reporters and Phantom’s silence fade. I tell myself this is meditation, a way to stop overthinking, to quiet the storm.
But the quiet doesn’t stay empty.
It thickens. A hum rises beneath my skin, metallic and alive, vibrating through bone. My pulse stutters. The air feels charged, as if the world itself is holding its breath.
Then I see it.
A figure forms in the dark—tall, gleaming, forged from shadow and steel. Its body is both armor and wound, edges sharp, surface fractured, light glinting off seams that look like scars. Its eyes burn with a cold fire, not cruel, but ancient.
“You called me,” the voice reverberates, not spoken but felt, echoing
