The divine pressure radiating from the obsidian basin made the ancient air inside the vault hum like an overdrawn bowstring.
Vaelok-Tor's colossal horned head strained forward, the white-gold celestial chains groaning in protest as they bit deeper into his collarbones and collar-struts.
His burning golden eyes, wide as siege shields, remained locked onto the glowing crimson fluid in Loryn's grasp.
He had lived since the dawn of the world, witnessed the shaping of the continents, and endured eons of dark subjugation, yet his stone-hewn face held only sheer, unadulterated disbelief.
"That radiance..." the Archon rasped, the syllables vibrating through the bedrock like rolling thunder. "The marrow of the Creator... How does a mortal walk with the uncorrupted draught of His veins?"
Jack didn't answer. He stepped toward Loryn, taking the heavy obsidian basin into his right hand.
