Then, without pause, he turned toward the old man—Maskith—
and drifted toward him in slow, deliberate silence.
Maskith saw him coming…
yet did not move.
Until Frey stood directly before him.
"What will you do now, Maskith?"
Frey's voice whispered beside his ear ..
sending a cold shiver through every fiber of his being.
"Aether won't work against me. Your control is far inferior."
"Aura won't save you either—you're even worse at it."
Frey leaned closer, his face nearly brushing Maskith's ear.
"So what now? How will you survive? Show me… I'm curious."
In that moment ...
Maskith moved.
The old man dropped to his knees, bowing his head in complete submission.
"The great heir… descendant of the First Writer… creator of this world…
forgive my insolence—pardon the sins committed by these hands!"
He begged for mercy ...
while Frey stared down at him with the same unfeeling coldness.
"What exactly are you doing?" Frey asked flatly.
