The chamber cracked with every blow.
Lucius and the Empress were no longer fighting as mortals—or even as gods. They clashed as concepts. As wills. As opposing truths. Each swing, each surge of power, reshaped the very fabric of the Core. The sky overhead split into spirals of memory and prophecy, as if time itself couldn't decide what had already happened.
Lucius's body bled starlight. His bones rang with the weight of Creation. The Pillars at his back pulsed in harmony, each resisting the oppressive weight of the Throne's binding.
Across from him, the Empress shone like a dying sun. Her dress became a storm of symbols, equations of sovereignty scrawled into silk. Every step she took aged the ground beneath her. Every glance rewrote the rules of magic.
"You don't understand what the Throne does," she said between strikes. "It doesn't just rule—it remembers. It carries every failure. Every betrayal. I took that pain so no one else would have to."
