"I warned you," Lilith said, her voice quiet and firm, not needing volume to carry weight.
He didn't respond right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was weaker than before—thin, brittle, the kind that came not from age, but from the exhaustion of knowing too much too late.
"There are always those who forget," he said.
Lilith tilted her head slightly, just once.
"I don't need to remind you again, as you will not be alive to repent."
That was the only answer she gave.
She raised her hand. No weapon. No spell. No display. Just her palm, raised at shoulder level.
The cathedral shifted.
A silver shimmer moved through the air—not loud, not flashing—just a soft, slow ripple that passed across the room like a breath held too long. It touched everything.
The torches. The bones. The offerings. The guards were standing frozen at the gates, the kneeling cultists.
Even the wind that had been threading through the cathedral's broken stones paused.
Not frozen.
Suspended.
