The blood-red banners of the High Disciplinary Pavilion snapped violently in the cold mountain gale as four dozen armored enforcers formed ranks along the central flagstone causeway.
Elder Mane stood at the head of the formation, his midnight blue robes pulled tight over a breastplate of dark iron, his fingers clutching an unrolled scroll of heavy parchment stamped with fresh crimson ink. He had not waited for the report from the subterranean vaults, nor had he lingered near the leaded glass of the observation booth to watch Caleb Conway’s bones turn to dust beneath the ten-fold gravity array. An experienced predator knew that when an anvil fell upon an enemy, one must seize the workshop before the smoke cleared, liquidating the target's physical assets before the central treasury could r
