The forge rang like a war drum. Sparks scattered, becoming molten fragments of light that clung to bare skin before fading. Quinlan's hammer struck in brutal, flawless rhythm, and beside him, Kaelira mirrored every beat with her own. Two craftspeople—one bearing the first seventy-five percent of the Mythwright's legacy, the other the final twenty-five—wove their strikes together.
The project was no ordinary armor.
It wasn't built for commanders or kings. It was not meant to inspire armies.
This was armor for the primordial butcher. For a predator who would step into battle not to defend the innocents but to murder his enemies.
Kaelira swung hard yet precisely. "Careful, my lord. If you push too much mana at once, the veins will collapse. We've failed too many times, we're running out of materials."
