The voice from the terminal speaker was not just digital distortion. It carried a familiar, weary cadence that sent a cold shudder down Elian’s spine. The man on the screen, gaunt and hollow-eyed, adjusted his position, his face illuminated by the harsh blue glow of the console. He looked less like a prisoner of the Null Zone and more like a man who had long ago traded his soul for a seat at the table of gods.
"Thorne?" Elian stepped forward, his boots crunching on the dusty concrete. He felt no triumph, only a suffocating dread. "You’ve been watching us this whole time? You let that Curator tear us apart?"
The man on the screen offered a thin, mirthless smile. "Watching is a generous term, Elian. I have been observing the calibration of your limits. Monarch needs to know the exact break
