Hell's morning was a slow burn.
The ceiling veins glowed like embers under rock. The Black Spire's shadow stretched across our training ground, swallowing the old ash and yesterday's footprints. My demons formed ranks without a word. Armor clicked. Blades whispered out of sheaths. Breath misted like smoke in the heavy air.
We had slept little. We had no need.
Noa pulsed faint in the gauntlet. "Crown integrity: eighty-one percent. Troop rhythm: steady. Residual holy resonance from the Lumen relic is dormant—in the gauntlet, not bleeding, My Lord."
"Good," I said.
Rena stepped to my right, visor open, eyes cool as midnight frost. "Orders?"
"Same cadence," I answered. "Anchor breaths. One hundred and forty times gravity. Threaded movement under pinning."
Zereth pulled down his hood and nodded once. He looked better—soul seams deeper and cleaner—but pain still lived behind his eyes. He did not let it speak.
