Chapter 37 · Dawn of the Black Throne

"Burn it all. Every last brick, every screaming soul—just wipe this city off the map!"

The Tyrant’s voice cracked, a wet, rattling sound that echoed through the Obsidian Hall. He wasn't even standing. He was slumped on a gold-plated chair, skin gray and peeling like old wallpaper, his fingers twitching over the detonator of the Void-Core. One press, and the capital wouldn't just fall; it would cease to have ever existed.

Lucian didn't even look at the man. He couldn't. Not yet.

He was pinned to the center of the ritual circle, his wheelchair cast aside like a piece of junk. For the first time in years, his bare skin hit the cold stone. The sensation was agonizing—not because of the cold, but because he couldn't feel it. The dead zone from his waist down was a screaming silence that mocked him.

"You think you're the one in control?" The Tyrant spat, a glob of black bile landing on the marble. "You're a broken toy, Cross. A cripple playing god in a dream. I'll give you a real nightmare: the sound of ten million people evaporating at once."

"Shut up," Lucian whispered.

He wasn't talking to the Tyrant.