The heavy obsidian doors behind the royal dais swung fully open, and Rhys stepped into the Council Chamber.
His posture was impeccably upright, his breathing slow and measured, his eyes carrying the cold, unyielding clarity of a warrior who had just marched through the fires of hell and brought back victory.
Behind him, the echoes of the Finals still hung in the air of Caeloria, but within these sacred, marble-lined halls, time seemed to freeze.
Leandros Malakor's ancient hand froze as the wine went down his throat. His silver-bound goblet trembled in his grip, the deep crimson wine sloshing against the rim as his mind frantically pieced together the sequence.
The S-rank dungeon solo clear.
The Finals dismantling.
And the wine.
It was a trap.
Leandros looked down at his goblet, but it was already too late. He had swallowed.
