The shadow flowed over the cathedral floor like spilled ink, swallowing the light of the girl’s residual warmth. Lord Elric stepped forward, his gait jerky and unnatural, each footfall accompanied by the wet, slapping sound of ichor meeting stone. Behind him, the guards stood motionless, their helmets tilted at identical, agonizing angles, their gazes fixed on the altar with a hunger that transcended physical appetite.
"The glove is a relic of a failed era," Elric said, his voice overlapping, a cacophony of tones that vibrated in the blacksmith’s teeth. "Give it to me, and you shall be the first to witness the architecture of the new Oakhaven."
The girl didn't flinch. She snatched the leather glove from the altar, pressing it against her chest. "It’s not a relic, it’s a circuit breaker.
