Liam's breathing was slow, steady—each inhale drawn in like it was carved from stone, each exhale like the letting go of something he couldn't name. Around him, the ghostly field where the final rite unfolded had begun to fade into something colder, darker.
Before him, the spectral figure of the ancient king loomed, cloaked in regality, though now with a presence far heavier than before. His voice had grown softer, smoother, like silk soaked in venom.
"You've done well," the king said, his tone laced with an eerie reverence. "Your heart is pure. Your will… unshaken. Few ever reach this point."
Liam said nothing. His eyes, glassy but focused, were fixed on the hazy image of the girl forming beside the altar. A shape—still translucent—of a young girl, no older than ten. Blonde hair, eyes half-closed as though she was waking from a long sleep. Anna.
His throat tightened. It was really her.
