Lightning split the skies of Darius's dominion—though no storm brewed. The clouds themselves recoiled, warping around a beam of celestial fire that speared downward and struck the Heartspire Citadel.
Every ward flared to life. Every loyal entity stirred with unease.
He had returned.
The divine envoy—now cloaked in cracked light and solemn divinity—walked through the blackened halls unchallenged. Not because he couldn't be stopped. But because Darius waited for him.
They met atop the throne of bones and data, surrounded by burning sigils and screaming statues—monuments to Darius's conquest.
The envoy's golden eyes burned with something older than hatred. Older than hope.
"I am not here to fight," he said, voice ringing with the weight of forgotten oaths. "Not yet."
Darius remained seated. "Then you wasted your breath. Speak. Or be unmade."
The envoy knelt—not in submission, but in mourning.
