The dungeon air welcomed him like breath returning to lungs.
Cool. Damp. Quiet.
The throne room had changed since the first day he'd claimed it. What once was hollow stone now pulsed with living mana—veins of molten crystal ran through the walls, flickering with steady light, while obsidian torches burned with smokeless flame.
The floor beneath his boots rippled faintly as he walked—alive, aware, listening.
This place didn't feel like a lair anymore.
It felt like home.
Leonhardt stepped toward the raised platform at the centre of the chamber. His throne waited: carved from dungeon bone, inlaid with gold veining and crimson crystal. It didn't invite comfort. It invited command.
He didn't sit right away.
"Look at you," came Ifrit's voice—dry, sharp, teasing.
Ifrit hovered near his right shoulder, wings of ember light unfolding with a lazy flick.
