For a moment, silence failed.
Azrael blinked, genuinely caught off guard. "Morgan..."
"I can do it," Morgan interrupted, his voice dropping into a quiet, unyielding tone.
"You don't have to," Azrael insisted softly.
"I know," Morgan replied.
"I know I don't have to. But I want to."
He took a step closer to the phantom.
"I've spent months being told what I am. A vessel. A prince's ghost. A fragment of a cage. A weapon forged by a dead kingdom. But down there, on that rock, bleeding out under a giant eye... nobody is doing the bleeding except me. Not Modric. Not you. Me."
Morgan gestured to his own chest, his eyes burning with a fierce light.
"I'm not going to let you step in and save the day, Azrael. Because the moment I do, I stop being Morgan. I just become another tool, you picked up."
Azrael stared at him. The open hand remained hovering between them for a few agonizing seconds.
Then, slowly, Azrael's fingers curled into his palm.
He lowered his arm.
