Draven stood in the shadow of the Obsidian Sovereign, his tall, imposing silhouette outlined by the cold indigo moon. The silence that fell over the plaza was suffocating, thick with the weight of centuries of Southern blood magic and forgotten grief. Elara's breath remained hitched in her throat, her eyes fixed on her brother as if waiting for a sudden outburst, or perhaps a sudden withdrawal back into the dark core's madness.
I stood beside the pitch-black stone figure, feeling the faint, rhythmic hum of the Southern core pulsing beneath my own ribs. I turned my head toward Elara, noticing how pale she had become. "Elara..." I asked softly, "what is this statue? Can you explain it to me again? Draven started to tell me before, but—"
Draven didn't let her answer.
