The silence at the peak of the Frostspire was not the absence of sound, but a crushing pressure—the feeling of a world holding its breath before the final blow.
Elian stood alone at the base of the summit. Before him, the army of thousands—crystalline ice constructs with hollow, violet-burning eyes—stretched out like a field of jagged glass. They did not move. They did not breathe. They simply waited, a testament to the Despoiler’s absolute dominion over the elements.
At the center of this frozen ocean stood the Second Pillar. It was unrecognizable. The white marble was encased in a thick, suffocating shell of black rime, and the divine runes that once spiraled its length were dead, leaking a thin, dark smoke.
"They await your final breath," the Despoiler murmured, drifting to hover jus
