Silence reigned across the empty dimension that had once held the Primordial Gods' Tomb.
Brightkin, Orkin, and Ankil stood frozen, their eyes locked on the gargantuan corpse of Dream of Madness drifting through the void. The monstrous Empyrean floated lifeless and still.
"We… won."
Brightkin could barely believe the words leaving his mouth. Just seconds earlier, they had been preparing for death, ready to burn their souls in a final, futile struggle.
"Go! Help Merlin!"
The White Death's roar shattered their stunned silence. The three Sovereigns snapped out of their daze instantly.
Merlin had suffered the most devastating injuries of them all. The Obsidian Dragon King's body had been split in half. The only reason he remained alive was the ancient runic formation anchoring his life force and soul to the rest of the Sovereigns. That shared bond was the last thread keeping him from true death.
But even that miracle had its limits.
They had no time to waste.
