Snow hung in the air. Drops of black water thrown up by the broken ice froze mid-arc. Van Dijk's sludge spears remained suspended like sculptures of tar. Dark bullets from the Tower Masters halted inches from their targets, their black trails caught behind them. The undead army froze with weapons raised. Gale stood with Oathcarver halfway through a swing, the blade buried in a servant of Sloth that no longer had the privilege of finishing its collapse.
Only Ludwig remained aware enough to understand the horror of it.
The pressure of Sloth's authority no longer felt like sleep. It felt like the refusal of existence itself to continue. Movement was effort. Breath was effort. Thought was effort. The battlefield had been ordered to stop, and the world, exhausted by the suggestion, obeyed.
Sloth stepped from the throne onto the surface of the black water.
One foot.
Then another.
