The dawn never came.
Only smoke.
The night above Leonidus burned with a sickly light—the red haze of torches and collapsing roofs. Ash drifted like snow over the courtyards, settling on the marble lions that guarded the gates.
The once-proud banners of gold and crimson hung in tatters, fluttering in a wind that carried the scent of ruin.
Aiden stood among the wreckage of the great hall, the world muffled as if drowned beneath the weight of what had just transpired.
Where moments ago there had been feasting and laughter, there was only silence now—broken dishes, overturned tables, streaks of black ichor that hissed faintly where they touched stone.
And at the center of it all stood Augustus Leonidus, his armor half-fastened, his sword gleaming with mana and soot. His face was carved with disbelief, jaw tight, eyes blazing with something far older than fear—pride wounded into fury.
"Find it!" he roared. "Find that thing!"
