It wasn't a clean death.
Not some cinematic end, no noble last stand. Just a blur of noise, fire, and pain.
He remembered the flash—flames swallowing the alley. The taste of ash when he tried to shout a warning. The way the ground shifted under his boots as the Fold units swarmed through the breach.
He remembered the spear.
A blur of silver and raw muscle driving it forward. No flourish. No mercy. Just the efficient violence of war.
The impact hit like a hammer to the chest. His HUD screamed a fatal error even before he hit the ground.
His body dropped backward in a haze of red. Shouts. Metal. The collapse of walls.
Then darkness, folding around him like wet concrete.
And now,
Light.
Runes.
A scream tearing itself from his lungs as he was yanked back into existence.
The Inner Sanctum was quiet.
Not peaceful—just waiting.
