Silence after a threat was never empty.
It was loaded.
The Vault held its breath.
Golden light lingered in the air around Amaya like the echo of a struck bell, not violent, not explosive—decisive. The Concord leaders stood frozen in a semicircle, their wards half-raised, their confidence cracked just enough to let fear seep through.
They had expected a storm.
They had prepared for catastrophe.
They had not prepared for composure.
Amaya stood beside Calix, fingers still threaded through his, her posture straight despite the tremor running through her bones. Power hummed beneath her skin, no longer surging blindly, but flowing—vast, ancient, terrifyingly aware.
One of the elders finally spoke, his voice tight.
"You misunderstand your position."
Amaya tilted her head slightly. "Do I?"
"You are destabilizing the realms simply by standing here," another snapped. "Your existence bends ley lines. Kings wage war because of you."
