Ren's voice cut across the hush, low, sharp, carrying through smoke and ash. Nyxa whispered something inside him.
"Then let the war remember why it fears us."
The pause shattered.
The Council's fallen. The commanders are broken, scattered, none left to challenge him directly. The battlefield still smolders, smoke curling over a land carved by gods and mortals alike.
The King watches. Silent. Immense. Power enough to unmake worlds. But here, all eyes turn to one.
Ren stands alone. Cloak tattered, flesh scarred, but unbowed. The black-blue fog coils around him, alive, thrumming with hunger and authority.
He breathes once. The battlefield listens. The King stirs.
The battlefield fell silent, all eyes on Ren. Broken commanders, scorched earth, and smoke curling across ruins could not touch him. Cloak tattered, flesh marred, black-blue fog thrumming with a life of its own. He was the center, the axis around which war itself tilted.
