"…A curse,"
No ordinary strike could have left such a lingering taint. That weapon the foggy figure used was cursed.
Realizing, Reynold's lips curved faintly. "Prepare for battle."
The nearby commander blinked, startled.
"Use the Fiend-Slaying Formation," Reynold said.
For a single heartbeat, silence hung heavy over the ranks. Then understanding flickered in the commander's eyes. The enemy was still in the hall, hiding among them.
Without another word, the commander spun on his heel, his voice steady as he barked quiet orders and hand signals
Reynold stood still, his gaze locked on the far end of the hall. He adjusted his grip on his sword, the faint hum of its edge cutting through the silence.
"Let's see," he murmured, his eyes glinting coldly, "who is the traitor?"
In the hall, the last threads of fog had vanished completely.
But instead of relief, the chamber was thick with unease.
