The First Enchanters moved with a silence deeper than any tomb. There was no aggression, only a terrible, procedural certainty. They were scribes finding an error in a sacred text. Their raised hands didn’t crackle with energy; they quieted the air, preparing to erase the irregularity that was Team Silas.
“Shields of chaos!” Alaric’s command was a thunderclap. Lightning wreathed his fists, the Stormcaller geas flaring in response to the profound threat. “Their touch unmakes pattern! Do not let it find purchase!”
One of the Enchanters fixed its luminous gaze on a Branch B guard who had followed. The guard raised his shield. The Enchanter pointed. The shield didn’t break; it unfolded. The layered oak and steel flattened into a single plane of wood, then a line of grain, then a memory of a
