The Drowned King felt it.
The weight of expectation pressed against his back through the projection. Ragnar's patience had thinned to a razor edge. Myrasyn's stillness carried finality. Even without breath or flesh, even without nerves to warn him, the intent was clear.
They were done with this - with him.
They wanted to move along.
The undead king did not turn right away.
Instead, he shifted his helm and locked onto Quinlan.
The stare stretched. No words. No posturing. Just two figures measuring distance that had nothing to do with space. Quinlan remained where he was. Neither yielded. Neither blinked first.
This was not finished.
At last, the Drowned King broke the line of sight and angled his helm toward Scar.
The Elite Soul stood quietly with her bright blue light fading to a steady glow now that the upgrade had finished. To the undead king, she held a presence that did not feel borrowed.
