People watched in silence, the kind of silence that clung to the air like smoke after a funeral pyre, their eyes fixed on the figure plummeting from the heavens—their hero, their savior-to-be, the man whispered about in taverns and temples as the champion who might one day change the fate of the world.
Sylvaris crashed into the ground with a hollow, brutal finality, the sound echoing across the battlefield like a falling star striking the heart of creation, and when the dust cleared, his body lay still. He didn't rise. He didn't twitch. And none among the onlookers dared to breathe. A few, seated in shadowed corners, allowed hidden smirks to curl their lips, pleased by the thought that arrogance had finally claimed its price. But the vast majority wore nothing but fear—true fear—and worry that coiled deep in their chests like vines wrapping around their lungs.
