Atlas Von Roxweld step forward, his golden eyes blazing through the smoke, his black hair fluttering with excess mana. His body was a healing faster, much faster—virus and Yggdrasil locked in their endless war, [Healing Litigated … process… healing continued… 48%]—but his will was a furnace, burning through the pain.
The ache in his bones calming down, his breath coming smoother, but in his chest, his heart was the same.
The scrolls were a lie, a bluff to keep Five and Seven's eyes on him, to stall until the dragons descended? Or was it? He'd played their game, baited their pride, and now the night was his blade. A blade forged in pain, tempered in exile, and sharpened by betrayal.
The earth shook—a primal growl that split the ground. Imperial soldiers screamed as red dragons tore through their ranks, jaws snapping bone like twigs, wings casting shadows that devoured torchlight.
