The heavy iron door of the secret cell compartment slammed shut with a sickening thud, a sound that, for all its finality, was immediately swallowed by the wave of ecstatic, fever-pitch murmurs rising from the Icarus cultists.
Melo, the Emperor's Shadow, spun around, his black mask tilting upward, every fiber of his being focused on the singular goal: securing the Young Master. The moment Klaus had delivered his final, cryptic words to the High Priest, the interaction was over. But as Melo lunged to follow, the chilling emptiness of the stone corridor struck him with the force of a physical blow.
Klaus was gone.
Melo's instincts were honed by two decades of serving Roman Lionhart's darkest needs; he had seen thousands of disappearances, both clean and bloody, but never one so absolute and silent. He had been mere feet behind the Young Master, his eyes tracking every movement. There was no fading shadow, no flash of elemental light, no lingering heat signature of a charged spell.
