Then he turned to his father, and his entire demeanor shifted. The casual son became the Ninth Adrastia Emperor King, his presence filling the grove with authority that made the trees themselves stand straighter.
"And I... will heal my father."
The words carried weight that transcended everything else. This was one Emperor King addressing another, acknowledging both the tragedy of what had been lost and the possibility of restoration.
Adras Maxwell, the Eighth Adrastia Emperor King, stood straighter despite his body's weakness.
His eyes- those depths that had commanded empires and faced cosmic horrors, met his son's gaze with understanding. He knew what he had become: a shadow, a remnant, existence held together by will alone while his body forgot how to process even the most basic energy.
He couldn't assimilate anything anymore, couldn't cultivate, couldn't even properly digest food without conscious effort.
