The chamber beyond the Sentinels did not open with grandeur.
It bled into being, a slow unpeeling of reality, like a curtain of black silk parting without sound.
The air inside was thicker, colder. Not with chill, but with weight. Every step forward felt like wading into the depths of an unseen ocean.
They crossed together, though none spoke. Even Milim, usually irrepressible, walked with a strange caution, her fists clenched at her sides.
The Throne Chamber was vast yet spare. No towering pillars, no gilded ornament. Only a single elevated dais carved from pale obsidian, upon which rested a throne of fractured glass and still-shadow.
It was empty.
No king. No queen. No master waiting to meet them.
But Leon felt it—the occupant was not missing. It was present, woven into the chamber itself. Every corner, every stone, every breath of air was its gaze.
Naval whispered, though even whispers seemed heavy here.
"Leon… this is worse than the last arenas. Much worse."
