The chamber is dim, the air still carrying the iron scent of old spells. The cracked helmet of Atakhan rests on a pedestal, faint runes crawling over its surface like dying embers. You stand before it, silent, lost in thought.

Behind you, crimson light fades as Vladimir turns toward the exit. “Zaahen walks again,” he murmurs. “Ionia will soon learn what it set free.” He leaves without waiting for a reply, his presence dissolving into mist.

LeBlanc lingers. Her reflection fractures across the relic’s mirrored glass as she steps closer. “You saw it too,” she says, voice soft but deliberate. “The Darkin’s Glaive. One swing — and the demon was gone.”

Her eyes narrow, calculating. “We sought a vessel worthy of Zaahen’s essence, and Xin Zhao proved himself… exceptional. But this—” she gestures toward the scorched helm “—this is revelation. A Darkin capable of killing a demon.”

Her tone cools, almost reverent. “That changes everything.”

The runes flicker once, casting both your shadows long across the stone. The quiet that follows feels heavier than before.