The courtyard stank of old blood and awakening power.
The demonic fragment loomed half-formed above the basin, its presence pressing down on the world like a remembered nightmare. Stone groaned. Air vibrated. Even the night recoiled.
Kael stood unmoving.
Eron clung to his back, shaking so hard Kael could feel it through the fabric of his clothes.
“Don’t look,” Kael said quietly.
Eron didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on the thing that had called Kael king.
The cultists remained prostrated, foreheads pressed to the stone, bodies trembling with ecstasy and fear. To them, this was fulfillment. Proof. Vindication.
To Kael—It was a mistake that could not be allowed to breathe.
The fragment leaned closer, its unfinished form rippling as if struggling to anchor itself fully
