Rain slid off Thaleon's clean armor in thin streams, as if the battlefield refused to stain him. Lysandra was the opposite—blood and water clinging to her sleeves, her blade low, posture tight with fatigue she refused to show.
Trafalgar saw them properly now. His breath did not change, but his mind did. 'Why are you here.'
Valttair and Elenara had gone down. That was the plan. If Kaedor was above, fighting on that massive root, then the lower levels should still be the true threat—meaning Icarus and the Void Creature were beneath the castle, where Lysandra and Thaleon were supposed to be.
So either the plan had failed…
…or the battlefield had shifted again.
Trafalgar's gaze sharpened, not on their faces, but on details. Lysandra's stance. The way she carried her weight. The blood patterns. Thaleon's calm. The absence of damage. The way his summons circled with perfect timing, cutting threats down before they could reach him.
'Something went wrong down there.'
