The Spiral Chamber had never been this quiet.
Not during a war vote. Not even during the fall of Houses. This silence wasn't political—it was spiritual. Paralyzing. Like the collective heart of Esgard had forgotten how to beat.
The God-Chosen stood beneath the chamber's high dome, and it was wrong how natural he looked there. As if he hadn't just walked in from the distant Imperial City without escort or announcement, but had always belonged here—like this stone was built around him, not the other way around.
He was tall. Not monstrous. Not draped in impossible armor or shimmering relics.
Just a man. Pale robes, bare feet dusted with travel. But power clung to him like a mantle of ash.
The kind of power that didn't flare—it simply existed, undeniable and absolute. It was in the way people stared too long. In the way guards suddenly remembered their sins.
In the way even the torches dimmed slightly, humbled by a light that wasn't fire.
