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... . Not chaotic, not snarling. Disciplined. Quiet. Hanz reforged their armour in the dungeon's forge: matte black iron layered over chain, each set marked with a single sigil pressed over the chest—

A tree made of fire.

Branches curled upward like tongues of flame. Roots twisted downward, clawing the black.

It wasn't a banner.

It was a warning.

Leonhardt stood at the centre of the circle as the mana surged upward. The air thickened. The wind died. The glyphs ...

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