The godless crucifix stepped back. The crystalline bone walls of the tower trembled with him, their jagged interiors echoing the motion like ribs shifting around a buried lung. The veins of dark red pulsed faintly again, slow and deliberate—spirit-fed hunger stirring beneath the surface.
The whispers returned.
Not louder—but closer.
They pressed in from behind the stone, from under the floor, from somewhere inside the black screen that no longer glowed. The chorus of trapped souls gave no names—only presence. A rising sound, full of weight and unfinished endings.
The crucifix's silver eyes narrowed.
The faint smile disappeared entirely.
His voice, when it came, didn't need to rise. It moved the air on its own.
"It means that either his soul was captured…" he said.
He let that line hang—half spoken, half dismissed.
"Which is insanely unlikely for the planet he 'died' on…"
He paused again. Not for effect. For clarity.
"Or he's still alive."
