The Hollow Bastion hummed with a silence that was too deliberate, too sharp. As if sound itself feared to linger. The chamber's cold was no longer merely physical—it was woven into the stone, the walls, the very air they breathed.
Zolgrich stood before them once more, the green flames in his eyes dimmed but unwavering, casting faint shadows that writhed across the curved walls of the throne chamber.
Argolaith stood with arms crossed, eyes steady, the weight of all he'd learned pressing on his shoulders like a second cloak.
And yet, one question still burned in his mind—something personal, something that had lingered beneath the stories and warnings.
"What was it like?"
Zolgrich turned his gaze toward him. The flames in his eyes narrowed slightly.
Argolaith didn't blink. "Becoming the first lich. The first of your kind. What did it take?"
For a long moment, the Bastion held its breath. Then—
Zolgrich raised a single hand. And the space between them shifted.
