The tremors had barely settled when the great gate creaked open. A wave of stale, metallic air poured out, heavy with dust and a sharp tang of ozone. It clung to armor and hair like iron breath.
Emery lingered near the rear, senses keyed to the faint hum beneath the silence. It was not ordinary magic; it thrummed with the rhythm of machinery — discrete pulses that suggested gears, cores, and ages of motion.
Then the first wave hit.
Bronze golems charged through the dark throat of the gate, heavy limbs striking the stone in time with the drumming in Emery's chest. The Volkov line responded instantly.
"Formation, now!" roared Grand Magus Dravic, the red-bearded commander of the Volkov faction. His voice boomed through the chamber. The soldiers responded instantly, moving like a trained army. Dozens of rifles gleamed under the lights, their barrels carved with runes.
Dravic raised his molten gauntlet high, then swung it down. "Fire!"
