The golden light did not rush.
It rose slow, deliberate, undeniable.
As it climbed from the beneath the realm, the pressure that had crushed Elara’s lungs shifted, not easing, but redistributing, as if the world itself were recalculating how much power it could withstand without tearing apart.
Draven felt it like a hand closing around his spine.
“This isn’t like the others,” he said hoarsely.
“No,” the Devourer agreed, voice reverent and wary all at once. “This one was never meant to be erased.”
The golden presence continued to emerge, coalescing into a towering figure wreathed in firelight that did not burn. Its form was neither wolf nor man, yet carried echoes of both ancient armor fused seamlessly with flesh, eyes blazing with calm, terrible clarity.
The Executor stepped back.
J
