The air bent inward as though the void itself wanted to collapse into the figure's hunger.
Glothar did not stride with ceremony like Halreth, nor drift like Thalen—he stalked, each step dragging the blank canvas down, pulling it into teeth-shaped rips that snapped shut behind him. Where he passed, possibility was not erased or judged. It was eaten.
Naval's grip tightened on his trident, sweat running down his cracked skin. "He's not reshaping the void… he's feeding on it."
Roselia whispered, clutching her staff though her flame sputtered against the pressure. "…Maw of Thrones. The Sovereign who doesn't rule by law or fate. He devours thrones, and with them, the worlds they anchor."
Glothar stopped a dozen paces away, his helm tilting toward Leon. The burning blade in his hand hissed, the fire sounding like screams being smothered.
"You fractured law. You hold weight that breaks Sovereigns. You are not Flamebreaker." His voice grated like bone on stone. "You are prey."
