A second pulse followed the first, stronger, heavier. Not from collapse.
From awakening.
Levia's fingers twitched around the grip of her shattered tower shield. Her knees ached. Her breath rasped through grit-clenched teeth.
Famine laughed as he lumbered forward again. His bloated frame cracked the tile beneath him.
But he stopped.
Just for a moment.
The light that surged behind Levia—golden, fierce, and searing—was not hers.
It was his.
The sigil of the Demon Emperor burned behind her, searing across the stone like a brand across flesh. Her cracked shield quivered, then hummed, black mist stitching the splintered iron together.
Famine's tongue slithered from his mouth. "What trick is this…?"
Levia rose.
Not fast. Not proud.
But steady.
A flick of light shimmered along the runes of her gauntlet, climbing toward her wrist.
She looked at him, not as prey looks at predator, but as a soldier who would hold the line.
She raised her voice.
"Crush them."
