The corridor pulled.
It dragged the Liberators forward in a trembling line of agreement.
From inside the corridor, they watched Moltsage shrink with distance.
They watched him refuse to shrink with fear.
He moved like doctrine given muscle. Every step was a lesson. Every motion was a refusal.
Space around him kept shedding as a desperate craft. He peeled angles away from the incarnation's reach. He molted distance into wrongness. He forced the void to stutter, to miscount, to hesitate.
Each time the scythe cut, the cut should have been final.
Each time, Moltsage made "final" stop meaning what it meant.
The reactions inside were mixed.
Lucien said nothing.
His gaze remained fixed on Moltsage's back.
The longer he watched, the clearer it became.
Moltsage was not winning.
He was just buying them time.
Only now did they fully understand.
This was the danger the diviner had foreseen.
A Primordial's incarnation noticing their path.
