Mourne let out a rattling breath, his battered frame trembling in the enchanted chains that bound him to the air. Greenish blood oozed from the cracks along his lips, dripping slowly down his chin. His body was failing—every cell screaming, every nerve frayed—but still, his pride clung to him like rot that wouldn't wash away.
"You think… I fear death?" he croaked, voice thick and broken. A twisted, gurgled laugh escaped his mouth. "I've survived agony that would break the minds of everyone in this room. You don't scare me."
Mystica's expression didn't shift. She exhaled through her nose with quiet amusement, stepping forward until her cold, heavy aura washed over him like a storm tide.
"Fear was never required," she said, her voice low, composed, sharp. "You just haven't grasped the reality yet. You're powerless. Your myst is suppressed. Your regeneration is failing. And your value?" She tilted her head slightly. "It exists solely in what you know. Nothing else."
