From the heretic seats, the figures of the Sanctum of Light rose in fury. The High Censor stood, his voice booming across the gathering like a blade drawn in church.
"BEHOLD! THE DEMONBLADE! THE PROPHECY FULFILLED!"
"HE IS EVIL INCARNATE! A BLADE THAT FEEDS! THE PROPHET OF DEATH!"
"IAN IS THE END!"
-------
The chanting rose like a stormfront, a riot of hatred and fear crashing against the arena walls.
"Demon! Heretic!"
"Burn him!"
"He stole its soul! He commands the dead!"
Ian stood motionless, unmoved by the wave of voices or the hands pointed like daggers.
His gray eyes swept the crowd with the chill of a winter crypt. The beast's soul still lingered against his palm, a fading ember lingering before it vanished into the ether.
Then, like thunder splitting the vaults of a cathedral, a voice rang out across the coliseum.
"Enough."
The uproar stopped instantly, as if the stones themselves had commanded silence.
