Marek’s fingers dug into the raw meat of Leo’s dislocated shoulder, a brutal, bone-grinding grip that forced a sharp hiss of air through the boy’s teeth. The Southern Alpha didn't look at the child he had once called King. He looked at the statue on the throne, his amber eyes glazed with a terrifying, religious fervor. The scent of Sea Salt and Iron, usually a grounding force, had turned into the sharp, metallic tang of a man who had finally surrendered his reason to the dark."Don't touch her," Marek repeated, his voice a low, unlearned snarl that vibrated through the silver-mercury floorboards. "She is the only thing keeping the air in our lungs, boy. If you touch the lever, you touch the God. And the God is offering us a way out of this graveyard."Above them, the statue’s stone jaw remained open, the quartz lips frozen in a serene, artificial curve. The voice—the False Aria—continued its melodic, high-frequency broadcast. It fill
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