It was pretty cold in Deathlehem. As Percival crested the ridge overlooking the abandoned quarry, he saw azure flames glowing in the night like neons.
Mercius and Willow. Their blue flames and eyes were like ghastly colors in the darkness of the village, not to forget Argus, who Percival rode on, with his burning mane and tail.
At the edge of the treeline, a small cluster of villagers stood huddled together. They spoke in muted tones as their faces reflected the necromantic light of the Soldiers.
In a village that prided itself on silence and the memory of mortal grit, these flaming apparitions were a blasphemy.
Percival descended into the basin and unsummoned Argus. Mercius and Willow approached him, they didn't seem too concerned with the stares of the villagers.
Willow looked happy.
"Master," she said, sounding triumphant and exhausted. "It is done. I have fully comprehended the ⸢Iron Soul⸥ Skill. It's now permanently amongst my armory."
