The air at the gates of the dwarven capital was so thick with killing intent it felt as if even the mountains were holding their breath.
Seven dwarven Elders floated in a line, firelight dancing off their armor, each one radiating heat and pressure like a living forge.
Opposite them—
The Tower Master hovered alone.
White hair lashing behind her like storm-whipped banners, veil trembling, lightning coiled around her frame, frost blooming beneath her feet until the very stone groaned in protest. Her eyes—normally calm as still water—burned like twin storms ready to devour the horizon.
It was a tableau of disaster waiting to happen.
One spark.
One wrong breath.
One twitch—
And the entire mountain range would fracture under the force of war.
But all attention shifted downwards…
To a single figure struggling to stand.
Luca.
