Kaelith's laugh rolled across the arena like thunder, drowning even the chaos of the crowd. His one good eye burned bright, not with pity, not with condescension—but with fire.
He stepped closer, boots grinding through the fractured stone, and stopped before Leon. The warlord's massive frame cast a long shadow, but there was no malice in it—only weight.
"Breaker," Kaelith said, voice low now, for Leon alone. "The Tower bent to see you. And it found no cage to bind you. You carry a wound as a crown."
Leon's breath rasped through blood and dust. He forced himself upright, meeting Kaelith's gaze without flinching. His whole body screamed, every vein still thrumming with the unstable rhythm of Fracture Requiem, but his eyes were steady.
"I don't want a crown," Leon said. His voice was hoarse, but it cut sharp enough to pierce the silence that had settled between them. "I want the Tower itself to fracture."
