The silence that followed Damian's erasure was deafening.
A suffocating stillness blanketed the battlefield. Even the wind dared not whisper through the trees. The earth seemed to hold its breath. Lamit stood frozen, his eyes wide as disbelief painted his expression. Morbuan, though more composed, was still… stiller than usual. Eliv, behind them, narrowed his eyes—calculating, probing, watching the man who had just unmade a mountain and a fellow general with a single hand.
And yet, Galen simply rolled his shoulder.
The sound of fabric shifting against his coat was louder than anything else now. His gaze fell upon Morbuan.
"Let's not waste time," he said, voice low, steady—indifferent, like he hadn't just vaporized a man from reality. "Your turn."
Morbuan didn't smile this time.
He grinned.
That hideous, crooked grin peeled across his face like a wound splitting open. His human guise began to flicker—like a mask being burned off. And then… the truth of Morbuan emerged.
