Sepphirothy stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Morrigan like invisible spears. The heat of the previous battle still lingered in the air, but now the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. Even the dust began to settle with a strange calm, as if her presence altered the natural rhythm of things.
"Are you mocking my son?" Her voice came steady, low, without any hesitation. It was the kind of tone that pierced the chest without needing to raise the volume—a voice that carried history, authority, and the shadow of judgment.
Morrigan froze for a moment. A slight tremor ran down her spine, and even with the hot blood of the duel still pulsing in her veins, she felt the icy chill of Sepphirothy's vivid memory. That presence she had felt so many times from a distance — and avoided for so long.
