Miles stepped forward, the whispering thick in the air like a mist he could feel against his skin. The shard atop the pedestal pulsed, its dark gleam casting jagged reflections against the walls. Rolf circled wide, fists raised loosely but ready, his body tense.
The closer Miles got, the louder the whispers became. They were not words anymore, but screams layered beneath ancient songs, memories buried under aeons of rot.
He reached out a hand, and the moment his fingers brushed the air above the shard, the chains binding it began to twitch.
A single snap rang out like a gunshot.
Then another, and another.
The chains, engraved with what seemed like glowing runes of suppression, began breaking apart one by one, each rupture sending a ripple of pressure through the room. Miles recoiled, recognizing the sensation immediately.
"It's not just a fragment." He muttered, tightening his grip on the [Harbinger's Scythe]. "It's a seal."
