The celebration at the Royal Palace was a distant memory. While the nobility of Azureus toasted to their new Eighth Guardian, Alvian was already moving. Titles were useful tools for political leverage, but they offered no protection against a physical blow. The Draconic Legion was still a threat, sleeping behind a wall of ice that would eventually thaw. To kill them, he needed more than a title. He needed a complete arsenal.
Alvian stood at the edge of the Western District, his [Vestments of the Void Monarch] rippling in the deep ocean currents. Beside him, Valeria adjusted the straps of her battered plate armor, her expression grim but ready. Seraphina drifted in the shadows, her mechanical eye whirring as it scanned the formidable architecture ahead.
This was the domain of Guardian Magnus, the Iron Shell.
