The light sank into Leon like molten iron poured into cracked stone.
His body jerked, every wound screaming at once. The fissures across his skin glowed brighter, his blood turning into streaks of burning light before fading back into red. The weight of the Throne pressed down on him—chains of power, of dominion, of command—but instead of binding him, they broke, one after another, shattering into echoes that folded into his rhythm.
The Throne of Shackles didn't survive him.It bent to him.
Leon gasped, dropping to one knee as the last of the light sank in. His chest heaved, his heartbeat thundered, and then—silence. The Fifth Pulse settled back into stillness, leaving only exhaustion in its place.
Naval gripped his shoulder, steadying him. "Leon. Talk to me."
Leon forced a ragged breath, his voice low but steady. "…Still here."
