The Alpha's Mute Mate
The sound reverberates through the Throat of Echoes like thunder, like prophecy, like the final word of a god:
“The war has already been won.”
Every version of me—Tyrant, Martyr, Warrior, Sage, even the flickering Ghost—falls to their knees. The compulsion is absolute, inevitable, written into the very structure of reality. We are moths before a sun that wears our own face.
Only Ghost-me remains standing, and she's smiling.
"Finally," she whispers, her form growing more solid even as the others fade. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
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