As Nauthiz strode into the cold night air, the tension in the chapel remained palpable. The clerics whispered among themselves, their fear mingling with the weight of their complicity.

Outside, Nauthiz paused, his glowing eyes scanning the darkened courtyard. He felt the faintest ripple of something familiar—a presence lingering just beyond perception.

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“You’ve grown bold,” he said softly, his voice carrying on the wind.

A faint laugh echoed from the shadows. “You wear the crown well,” came Constantine’s voice, distant yet unmistakable.

Nauthiz’s lips curled into a faint smile, his breath visible in the frosty air. “And you still haunt me.”

Constantine’s voice softened. “Always.”