Selena's breath caught in her throat as the silver light bled down her chest like molten veins of a dying god. It wasn't pain that brought her to her knees—it was weight. The weight of a name spoken, a curse broken, a throne shattered.
Dante held her tightly, his hands trembling not from fear but from the raw echo of power still thrumming through her skin.
"The mark…" he whispered, watching the light pulse in steady, searing trails.
"It's not just a mark," Selena choked out. "It's an opening."
The wind picked up, no longer warm. It howled now—through the broken cathedral stones, past the ruins that once burned holy. The earth beneath them trembled again, a groan rising like something ancient shifting in its grave.
From beneath the ash, the world exhaled.
And from it, the Burned Throne began to rise.
---
It didn't ascend like a monument, but burst like a scar erupting from the flesh of the land.
