The cold clarity in Greed's mental voice made my skin crawl. Gone was the bombastic rage, the theatrical fury I'd grown accustomed to. What remained was something far worse—a dry, surgical precision that spoke of millennia spent cataloging every betrayal, every humiliation, every strategic failure.
The black sword had stopped vibrating. My hand felt empty despite gripping the hilt. The phantom ache where the rune used to burn was already fading, but the dread filling my chest only intensified.
'I'm listening,' I projected, forcing the words through my mental fatigue.
I didn't sit. Couldn't. Instead, I leaned against a cracked slab of wall, using the rough stone to ground myself. The exhaustion from pouring every last reserve of my arcane energy into awakening Greed still clung to my limbs, but something about Greed's tone—that awful, patient certainty—kept every nerve alert.
