Through the Soulthread, Lucy felt it—a wave of nervous tension pulsing through the cohort as Bruma stepped forward.
She reached for the Obsidian Chronicle with her one remaining hand.
It rested in the outstretched arms of Nyxaris's shattered statue, shrouded in shadows. Black mist coiled around the massive tome, seething like smoke with a mind of its own. The whispers it gave off weren't just sounds—they were vibrations, brushing against skin like a cold breath, crawling under nails, threading into thought.
Lucy felt the nerves, too. Thick and electric. Buzzing in his teeth.
'What truths could be important enough to be locked behind a monster like Caelgorr?'
He had no answer. How could he? He'd only been drafted into this divine war eight months ago. And though he'd learned much about the Gods, especially Seraphine and Nyxaris, there were still more shadows than light.
Bruma's fingers touched the book.
And for a moment, everything stopped.
Breaths held.
Muscles tensed.
