On the same continent, far from the ruins Azriel had just left behind, a beast in human skin raged. She was once known as a woman—Velmira—but now? She was something unrecognizable. Consumed by fury, she tore through her slaves one by one, every scream drowned beneath her own.
"MY FUCKING ARMY! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH ENERGY IT TOOK TO MAKE THAT?! THIS IS ABSURD!"
Neuraleth was typically a quiet continent, but the brokers of secrets still operated beneath the surface. News of Velmira's meltdown spread like wildfire, jumping city by city—carried in whispers, encoded notes, smuggled messages. And with that came unrest.
People, for the first time in generations, questioned the divine.
"Is this what the Graces truly are?"
"You're supposed to protect us… not kill us."
Their voices barely rose before they were silenced—swiftly, brutally. Each continent heard the same chilling phrase, repeated from the mouths of Graces, echoing like doctrine:
"Do not accuse us of the same."
