The air had turned unnaturally still around the tomb, as if even the wind dared not stir while fate unraveled its last threads.
The queen stood before Marcus, her form dimmer than before, her light not just flickering — but waning. Her hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from exhaustion… from sacrifice. Each second that passed, the glow around her soul-body thinned like smoke on the verge of fading.
She looked at Marcus and nodded once, sharply. "There's no more time."
He stepped forward, silent, jaw tight.
She raised a hand, and from her palm, a glow began to form — not bright, not radiant like the magic of stories — but heavy. It carried weight in the way gravity does, unseen but undeniable. The small orb grew slowly, painfully, like something pulled from her very bones. It spun slowly in her palm, no larger than a bead, its surface dim and pulsing like a dying star.
The others watched in silence. No one dared to speak.
