Damon stopped right in front of the Keeper of False Truths.
The ancient battlefield fell into complete silence—as if the world itself held its breath. All eyes, mortal and monstrous, turned to them. Even the rift above, which had once poured nightmares endlessly, slowed. An eye peered through, wide and pulsing—but Damon noticed something strange.
Hesitation.
Even Ittorath, bound in his sky-born prison, seemed uncertain at the sight of the one who stood before Damon now.
But Damon… didn't care about the Keeper's game.
He wasn't here to play for amusement or for riddles. He stood, unflinching, before the once-great and wise ruler of Lysithara—a man who had ruled the land that forged kings and legends, who had once been the shining example of what a ruler should be.
A man now swallowed by corruption, but still…
Something noble lingered.
