Max clenched his fists.
Not out of anger.
Not even fear.
But focus.
If something like that was possible here… then anything was.
The Mourning Depths had just reminded them all—
They weren't hunters.
They were prey.
Amara's voice echoed gently in Old Man Grey's mind.
Not with panic. Not with fear.
But with the calm sharpness of someone trying to understand death before it claimed another.
"Sir Grey… what was that?"
For a moment—he didn't answer.
His eyes were still locked on the ashes.
His grip on the crescent sickle trembled—just a little.
Then, with a vital essence transmission of his own, he finally spoke.
And the weight of his words hit like a stone tossed into still water.
"I'm… ashamed to say it," he began, slowly.
"But this is the first time I've seen something like this."
He glanced into the fog. His brows deeply furrowed.
