Vael moved towards Ervin.
The battlefield's eyes were too sharp, too starved for anchors. He let himself be seen when he emerged on the far flank, carrying the Mage King's body as one might carry a relic rather than an enemy. Soldiers drew back, whispers broke through the wreckage.
When Vael reached Ervin, the air between them was taut. Ervin's hand twitched once, as if to refuse the burden. Then he forced it still, spine straight, and accepted.
The corpse was heavier than it should have been. Not in flesh, but in consequence. Even dead, the Mage King demanded attention. The weight of an epoch, pressed into Ervin's arms.
"From him," Vael said. His voice was even, though his shoulders bled through torn cloth. "He thought you should have it."
Ervin's jaw tightened. Logic flared, cold and relentless.
["Symbolic. The corpse delivered to Arkenhall, not discarded. A statement: Ren does not hoard power, but discards crowns. He will not sit a throne. He refuses it."]
