The letter curled within the golden sacred flame, blackening, cracking, until it surrendered at last—falling apart into a fine, weightless ash that drifted down over the mirror-bright floor of the throne hall.
Austin's eyes darkened, a sky gathering storm before the break of thunder.
Around him, ministers blanched. Pupils widened in disbelief as they watched those cinders fall, as though they were watching faith itself crumble into dust at their feet.
A razor wind rose from nowhere, whistling through the high arched windows, snapping the tall banners and stirring the deep purple of Aurek's royal robes.
Upon the golden throne, the emperor's gaze—cold as forged steel—cut across the hall.
That glance alone pressed the chamber into hush. Even breathing turned cautious, as if a careless exhale might profane the moment.
"…Weary?" Austin finally breathed, incredulity biting at the word.
Weary—of the Ordon Theocracy's presence within the Empire?
