The tomb stabilized slowly, as though exhaling after enduring the weight of an ancient truth. The stellaris glyphs along the walls dimmed into a steady pulse—no longer warning, but waiting.
Nysha dragged a hand through her hair, trying to steady her breathing. "So that's it. The war. The real reason the Pantheon branded him a devourer."
Ashwing perched on Seris's shoulder, still trembling. "They weren't protecting the world. They were trying to reset it like—like some cosmic cleaning cycle! And he said 'no.' Why is that not in any history book?! Why is that—"
Kherael answered with a melancholy hush. "Because the victors write the laws. And the defeated… become monsters."
Lindarion didn't speak at first.
He stood with one hand lightly pressed against his chest, where the resonance from the inherited blade still flickered beneath his ribs. His heartbeat felt heavier, older—like his body was struggling to accommodate something that wasn't entirely mortal anymore.
