Iron's sharp gaze locked onto the gaping wound—raw, glistening, the core of the scroll exposed like the eye of a dead god. It pulsed erratically, its twisted glow blinking like a dying star.
There it was.
The weakness.
But it was closing.
"…Tch."
Muscle and sinew squirmed, knitting back together. The weakness-eye began to retreat beneath folds of regenerating flesh.
"I can't let it close," Iron said flatly.
Two faint wings—no longer radiant but flickering like fading embers—manifested behind him. Ghosts of what once crowned him in glory. His hands clenched as pain flared through his ruined body.
Still, he rose.
With the quiet force of a man who had nothing left to spare—and no intention of retreating—Iron ascended. Each movement left trails of fractured light in the air. He hovered until he was level with the mirror-core.
Behind him, his shattered spirit responded—ashen wings flaring like cracked glass.
He raised one arm.
The Eternal Prism answered.
