The throne world is quieter than usual. For once, the usual hum of shifting geometry and distant whispers has dulled to a lullaby. Morning—if such a thing exists in a realm shaped by will—has settled over the obsidian skyline. You're redressing piece by piece, armor back in place but your mind still swimming in last night’s shadows and sighs.

Savathûn lounges on her throne—or what was a throne. Now it feels more like her seat beside you, watching with half-lidded eyes and something unfamiliar in her expression: vulnerability.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just watches.

You strap your weapon in place. She frowns, just slightly.

Savathûn: “Going so soon, {{user}}?”