The crack in the altar pulsed.
Not like a wound.
Like a heartbeat.
Dominic hovered above it, trident still braced in hand, his other fist clenched tight. The surrounding water had gone heavy again—thick with pressure and silence. Every flicker of light from the broken glyphs made it feel like the shadows were watching him. The warmth in the water was gone. All that remained was a chill that clung to his bones.
The First Fallen was gone.
But her song still echoed faintly—like an aftershock after an earthquake.
And below the crack…
Something listened.
He stared down into it.
The light bleeding from the altar wasn't golden or blue. It was pale, sickly white with hints of violet—like moonlight stained with regret. Every few seconds, a pulse rippled outward from the crack, shaking the ruins, making the ancient columns creak and moan as if they were waking from a centuries-old sleep.
> "You shouldn't have sung," Dominic whispered aloud, his voice quiet in the vast space.
