The air hung heavy—choked with smoke, blood, and the iron scent of burning mana. Corpses lay in ruin across a battlefield that no longer resembled terrain but a scorched altar, baptized in ash and agony.
He could see it all. Every collapsed body. Every shallow breath from the wounded. Every glint of steel hidden behind smoke. But more than that—he saw intent. Malice blooming like spores through the cracked ground, concentrated in the north quadrant, past the fallen watchtower.
"Found them," he muttered. His voice barely rose above the wind, but it carried—a grounded, commanding growl sharpened by focus. "I'm going ahead, Claire. Enemies are there—stay behind."
There was no hesitation in the way he spoke. No uncertainty. Just fact. The kind spoken by men who had seen too many battlefields to confuse instinct with fear.
