The grunted whaling of Malgareth subtly filled the surrounding as black tears continued to gush out from his already void eyes, flowing steadily from the holes of his broken helmet.
It wasn't loud—it wasn't even a cry of defiance.
It was hollow, guttural, filled with something far worse than pain.
Regret.
Madness.
Suffering.
The surrounding air stood still.
No one moved.
Even the wind held its breath.
Venedix's golden eyes narrowed slightly, her swords still cracking with dormant power, but held at bay.
The rest of the group stood in silent curiosity, cautious but unwilling to break the moment, all their attention locked on Jinn.
His steps were steady.
His expression unreadable.
He walked.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Measured—like his body moved on its own.
Jinn's grip tightened on his sword, his brow lowering.