Light returned—but it was not of the present.
The three stood inside a vast hall, its vaulted ceiling stretching into a sky painted with streaks of starlight. The walls were made of white stone inlaid with gold, and banners of the Knight's Tower billowed in a breeze that felt more like a memory than wind. There was no scent of blood here, no echo of screams—only sacred silence, noble, unbroken… and strangely bright.
"This isn't an illusion," Karl whispered, his eyes scanning the space like a man retracing lost memories.
A procession of knights marched in from a distant gate, clad in silver armor that gleamed like dawn. At their head was a young man—stern face, unwavering gaze. The same man they had seen on the stone throne—before he became the Demon of Dusk.
"It's still him," Cedric whispered. "But not the same."
Molvar bowed his head. "We're seeing the past."
