The chamber didn't heal.
Normally, when a Rank fell, when a trial ended, the Obsidian Ants' arena would mend itself—walls knitting back together, the air resetting, the scars of battle wiped clean. But here… the silence stayed broken. Cracks still ran across the floor where Roman's hammer had struck. The air still stank of burned decree from Milim's inferno. Even the emptiness felt scarred.
That was the price of fighting a Throne.
Leon coughed again, forcing himself upright. His body trembled, his veins still glowing faintly with violet fractures, but the Fifth Echo's howl had finally gone quiet. Fracture Requiem had been sated… for now.
Roselia reached him first, her hands trembling as she pressed against his arm. "You idiot," she whispered, though her voice cracked with relief. "That pulse could have torn you apart."
Leon managed the faintest of smirks. "Yeah… but then you'd have been short a conductor."
