The silence that followed the collapse of the cursed citadel was deafening. Smoke curled in the twilight like a noose unraveling slowly from heaven's throat. Raen stood amid the ruins, blood soaking through his shredded tunic, his right eye pulsing with the sigils of the Shatterborn. The world beneath his boots felt… still. As if it were waiting.
He wasn't.
A low moan came from behind the altar, where the enemy commander—a Godmarked war priest named Thalean—clawed at the earth, his legs mangled into pulp, his arms bound in fleshwoven threads. Raen had made sure of that.
He approached, slowly. Each step deliberate.
Thalean's mouth twitched into a bloody grin. "You think this… this victory matters? The gods will remake me. Again and again."
Raen knelt beside him.
"No," he said calmly. "They won't."
He placed two fingers against Thalean's temple. A soft glow emanated—not from mercy, but from invocation. The Names within Raen stirred.
