Kiaria's gaze hardened.
The Yin was no longer circulating. It was spreading–rolling outward like a tide that had lost restraint, pressing against the formation with intent rather than flow.
"All of you, step back," he said sharply. "The formation is expanding. Do not interfere with their battle."
The words carried authority, not urgency.
Everyone moved at once–everyone except Azriel.
His eyes never left the fog. His mind was locked inside it, isolated, dragged toward the lone figure standing against the encroaching darkness. He heard Kiaria speak. He understood that words had been spoken.
But meaning never reached him.
Mu Long cursed under his breath, stepped forward, and seized Azriel by the shoulder. He dragged him back–hard, unceremonious–just as the ground beneath their feet darkened and sank.
Azriel stumbled, breath breaking, but did not resist.
At Gen Jin's feet, the severed arm dissolved.
