For a long moment, there was only silence.
Not the comfortable silence of a world at peace—but a strained, unnatural void, where even the wind dared not breathe.
The flying swords hung in the air like suspended guillotines.
The mist still coiled like serpents around their legs, binding them with invisible chains of dread. But nothing moved.
The figure… did nothing.
No attack. No motion. No sound.
Just stood there.
Keith blinked hard, half-expecting another wave of flashing death.
His body was wrecked—ribs cracked, shoulder dislocated, lips split from the previous fight.
Zhark lay groaning, electrical sparks twitching around his limbs like dying insects.
Fraven was clutching his arms, sweat soaking through his back, his psionic lines scrambled.
Shania stared forward with dilated pupils, her illusion core still flickering from the earlier shattering.
And yet—
The figure. Still.
It didn't even breathe.
It didn't advance. It didn't chase.
It just watched.
