The tremors hadn't stopped. They rolled through the chamber like distant thunder, subtle and low, rattling dust loose from the walls and sending cracks deeper through the stone beneath the ritual circle. The vortex behind Anna's fading spirit pulsed like a dying star, flickering and stuttering, uncertain if it should hold or collapse.
The ancient king didn't move at first.
He stood perfectly still, his long shadow cast like a spear across the altar, face half-shrouded in that dim, ethereal light. His eyes—those bottomless, ageless things—were locked not on Liam, not on the flickering sigils, but on the pendant. The small, glowing piece of metal that hovered in the air like it had no business being there.
His fists clenched slowly, fingers curling inward, not in fear—but fury.
The king's mouth twisted into something more than a snarl, less than a scream.
