Achilles stood steady.
Before him floated the burly figure whose voice still echoed in his bones. A being chiseled from starfire and legacy, his presence wore no crown yet commanded the respect of stars.
"I am the Fourth Adrastia Emperor King," the man said, his voice carrying the weight of ages. No thunder accompanied it. No fanfare. Just a finality as immutable as the Regulations that governed stars. "And for you to be the Ninth... for us to fall that far..."
He did not finish.
His gaze drifted across the mountains of corpses once more, his eyes no longer cruel, but tired. "All this power," he whispered, more to the void than to Achilles, "and still, we were culled. One by one. Like cattle."
Achilles said nothing. His fists clenched at his sides in solemnity. In understanding. He had never once felt the warmth of his Grandfathers. Only remnants, dreams, and pain.
