The quiet did not last.
It never did, not in places built around suppression rather than peace. The basin lay still in the aftermath of Kaelthrix's collapse, dust settling in slow spirals through the dim light, fractured stone creaking as stress redistributed through layers far below sight. The dark crystal mass that had once been the architect sat half-embedded in the floor, inert for now, faint gold veins pulsing weakly like the dying embers of a forge.
Lindarion barely registered any of it.
The inheritance receded too fast.
One moment it had been a roaring presence, a lattice of authority and consequence threading through his bones and breath, and the next it withdrew like a tide ripped violently backward, leaving raw nerve and hollowness behind. His knees hit the stone despite Nysha's grip, the impact jarring what little awareness he still held onto.
'Too much,' he thought dimly. 'I pulled too hard.'
