Far across the sky, facing Achilles with his cold gaze, the figure of the Lunaris Throne began to laugh.
"...Haha…"
It was quiet at first.
A chuckle that seemed more like a cough.
But it grew.
"HAHA!"
Madness was the color of his eyes now.
He was drenched in regret, in rage, in the slow-burning realization of what had truly happened.
"…I knew."
He whispered, staring down at the Dark Star Scythe in his hands.
"I knew I might be discarded."
His voice was hoarse.
"But that's why I gave it everything. I razed my own capital. I opened wounds I cannot close. I let you in. I stood out- I made sure I stood out!"
His shoulders shook.
"I wanted power. Even if it was borrowed. Even if I was being used. I thought… if I was useful enough, I'd be kept."
His grip tightened on the scythe.
"But now…"
He laughed again. A rasping breath.
"…I see it. I was already discarded the moment I picked you up."
Silence.
And then…
A voice, as gentle as death echoed out in reply.
