The sea fell still.
A silence crawled over Halftide, not the quiet of peace, but of aftermath. Of something too vast to name being torn away.
Arthur didn't rise.
The chains had shattered, runes dimmed, Seisyll gone, but Arthur remained on his knees. His hands hung stiff in the air, half-raised as if unsure whether to bury into his skull or claw down through the deck to reach something he would never touch again. They twitched, trembling, fingers curled like talons gripping nothing. No light glowed in his eyes. No fury danced along his breath. Only the collapse.
Only the hollow weight of something stolen.
His shoulders shook, but it wasn't sobbing. It was the body's memory of grief, an ancient tremor, guttural, blind. His scream had already passed. What remained was worse.
