The Cathedral of Crowmere stood gutted by frost, shadow, and blood. Its once-proud bells were mute, its moon goddess statue fractured from crown to ankle. Smoke curled where holy oil had burned, mixing with the metallic stench of blood and the sulfur of demonic rifts.
I stood at the center of the ruin, my gauntlet — Noa Genesis — pulsing with a rainbow-black glow. The weight of the Silent Crown pressed outward from me, my Domain anchoring itself into every crack of stone and every whisper of soul still lingering in the air.
Noa hummed in my gauntlet, its voice flat but resonant.
"Domain drift minimal. Silent Crown stable at eighty percent. Recommend consolidation while anchor rhythms remain favorable, My Lord."
I lowered my gaze to Roger, the elven general, shackled by the very oath he once carried proudly. His body trembled, blood soaking his armor, yet his eyes still clung to a stubborn flame. He knelt because I forced him to — because the chains of his own vow now obeyed me.
