The General stood without weapon or armour. His cloak was black, frayed at the hem, and his eyes were the same pale grey as the sky above the storm. Older than Leon remembered. Not weaker. Just worn in a way that felt deliberate, like a relic left untouched for the sake of memory.
"You came," he said.
Leon didn't move. "You expected I wouldn't."
"I expected you'd hesitate."
"I did."
The General nodded. "And still you walked."
Leon's hand rested near the cursed blade but didn't draw. The weapon didn't speak. It didn't need to. The ground knew this was not yet the place for it.
"You were supposed to stay dead," the General said quietly, stepping toward the throne. "That would've been simpler."
Leon stepped forward too, slow and measured. "So would leaving you here to rot. But neither of us got what we wanted."
The air around them shifted. Not wind. Not pressure. Intent. The camp beyond still slept. The throne grounds were marked, warded by silence.
