The Royal Plaza, once a symbol of the Western Empire's unyielding solar radiance, had been transformed into a charnel house of cosmic silence. The air was no longer merely thin; it was predatory. The four Abyssal Shards—massive, jagged monoliths of obsidian that pulsed with a rhythmic, sickly violet light—acted as lungs for the Void, exhaling a conceptual cold that didn't just freeze the skin, but erased the very idea of warmth.
At the center of this geometric nightmare, Kassian, the Emperor of the West, was fading.
He was no longer the "Red Tyrant" who had leveled mountains. His skin, usually radiating a dry, forge-like heat, was now the color of wet ash. The glowing orange traceries of the Sun-curse—his burden and his birthright—were flickering like the last embers of a dying civilization. Every time a spark of silver fire attempted to manifest, the Void-Eater monoliths hissed, leaning in to drink the energy, leaving only wisps of black, bitter smoke.
