Ian stepped barefoot from the ruined chamber.
The corridor outside was soaked in blood, its silence interrupted only by the slow drip of crimson pooling between the stone tiles.
The scent of death clung to the air like perfume at a noble's banquet—iron-rich, warm, and final. The bodies of the Sanctum's agents lay where they had fallen, some with their throats ripped out, others blackened from within, charred by a flame no cleric had ever prayed for.
His bare chest rose and fell slowly, though there was no exhaustion in his breath.
Just stillness. Calm.
From his hand, black wisps of Soul Flame evaporated into nothingness.
Elise followed behind, untouched, not even a hair out of place.
---
Esgard's city bells rang with grim authority.
Not for victory. Not for celebration.
They rang for judgment.
When a noble committed a crime in the eyes of their own—when a high law was broken—they were summoned before the Council of Nine and the houses of Esgard.
