The battlefield shuddered as the Shadow advanced, its form fracturing and reforming with every movement. Mountains of half-written ink cracked beneath its feet, rivers of molten script boiled, and stars half-born collapsed into black voids. The Shadow was not a being—it was every path they had denied, every version of themselves they had refused to become.
Fenric's silver threads lashed outward, binding the shifting mass in lattices of light. "Order without tyranny!" he roared, forcing his flame into a cage of possibility.
The Shadow twisted, folding his chains back into him, reshaping them into flawless symmetry—the law Fenric had rejected. A crack ran across his chest as the chains pulled, yet he did not falter. "We decide!" he shouted, stepping forward.
