The air in the palace courtyard was thick with the copper tang of blood and the acrid, biting stench of burnt synthetic oil. Zeven stood at the edge of the ruin, his chest heaving, his eyes locked onto the figure standing before the ancient stone altar. The Second Elder remained motionless, his dark, ceremonial robes rippling in the frigid mountain wind. In his right hand, the staff pulsed with a deep, crimson rhythm, casting long, dancing shadows against the cracked brickwork of the ritual site.
"You have destroyed my machines, but you cannot destroy the legacy they serve," the Second Elder said, his voice smooth and cold, cutting through the silence like a razor.
Zeven did not respond immediately. He took a steadying breath, feeling the burning sensation on his face where the proximity
