The gathered elders and Ash's companions stood frozen on the cracked grounds of the Nocturne estate, the air still thick with the acrid scent of charred blood and ozone from the battle above.
The massive crater where Liam had fallen smoked faintly, the Ninth Calamity prince's broken body lying motionless at its center—silver hair matted with blood, robes torn, aura flickering like a dying ember.
No one dared approach.
The silence was suffocating, broken only by the distant howl of wind through the estate's spires and the faint crackle of residual lightning.
Kaelthyr watched with narrowed eyes, his gaze locked not on the fallen prince, but on the sword at Ash's side.
Primordia gleamed even in stillness—liquid black metal veined with rose-pink light that pulsed like a living heartbeat, exquisite beyond anything he had ever witnessed. The power radiating from it was palpable, a potential that hummed with promise higher than any relic from Eternal Clans or ancient ruins.
