Chapter 200: Morning Dew
Circuits in the headset surged, feeding him data he no longer trusted; half the metrics blinked NULL, the rest screamed in scarlet alerts.
"Much like you," he said, his tone sharp, cutting through the hum of the portal, "my mission is to stop you from letting power corrupt you and bring you... well, those above you, technically."
A humorless laugh snagged in his throat; those above you sounded absurdly fragile against the presence towering a dozen paces away, yet he pushed on.
He paused, his breath hitching, sweat rolling down his cheek as he adjusted his blazer, the fabric clinging to his frame.
Damp silk rasped across his ribs, reminding him that the suit—tailored for pomp—offered no armor at all.
"I don’t believe you’ve ever created anything," he added, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, though his eyes betrayed the fear still clawing at his chest.
The smirk quivered, threatened to break, but held—just long enough to show he still understood how theater worked, even on the edge of annihilation.
The figure’s gaze narrowed, the faint smile returning, a glint of something dangerous in his unreadable eyes as he stepped forward, the red lining of his cloak catching the torchlight, painting a brief smear of color across the pale ground.
The cloak’s hem whispered over the glass‑smooth floor, leaving a wake of chilled air that curled against the Announcer’s ankles and made the silver circuits beneath the surface spark in protest.