The void was trembling. Not from sound, but from the unmaking of sound itself. Every voice that once bound the Drakhen Council into existence now thinned into static—thin ribbons of remembrance burning away as the god's singularity devoured them.
The air itself vibrated with the dying echoes of their authority. Shael hold… crown unmake… Velmorr bleed… The chant came in stutters, like broken wings scraping against the dark. Their syllables bent, twisted, and finally dissolved into a silence so complete it felt holy and obscene at once.
Dahlia could feel them tearing through her vesselhood, those same echoes that had once guided her in trance and rite. The tether that had linked her to the Council snapped one by one, each rupture a lash across her mind. She felt them go—not just their voices, but their existence, swallowed whole, leaving behind the aftertaste of ash and salt.
