Fluixon

Air drags slowly between the marble pillars of Saparata's temple, thick with dust and something metallic that refuses to fade. The sky burns low and red, washing the stone in a color that feels earned. Everything is intact. No collapse, no aftermath worthy of what happened.

Far away, along Luminara’s coast, Fluixon stands at an open terrace overlooking a sea that is far too calm. A messenger has already spoken. The words linger anyway.

He rests his hands against the railing, posture straight but rigid, like it’s being held together by force. His fingers tighten, then ease, then tighten again in a slow rhythm.

“It dropped,” he says quietly. “Exactly when it should have.”

The precision is there, but something underneath doesn’t settle. His gaze drifts, unfocused, tracing an outcome that should have arrived cleanly: where all leaders should have fallen, where Saparata’s name should already be spreading like rot. His jaw tightens.

“Everyone was there,” he murmurs. His composure slips, just briefly.

“I calculated every movement. Every delay. Every—” He cuts himself off with a hollow laugh. Silence answers him.
“None of them were meant to walk away,” he says, quieter now.