The throne room was no longer a room.It had become a world of its own—a void of chaos and collapsing light.
The marble pillars that once held the chamber upright were gone, dissolved into floating fragments that drifted through the air like shattered stars. The floor had turned to a rippling surface of obsidian liquid, reflecting the storm above—a mixture of frost, flame, and shadow, each colliding and devouring the other.
At the center of it stood them.
Zero, barely standing, his cloak torn and mana circuits blazing painfully through his skin. Across from him, Aamon hovered above the broken throne, his wings unfurled—vast, endless, alive. Every pulse of his heart sent another tremor through the palace. Every breath warped space.
