The Grave Warden did not roar as the holy light scorched its rusted chest plate. It simply recalibrated. The blue vertical slit of its iron mask flickered as it processed the anomaly standing in the flooded corridor.
Isole Sylvaris did not give the Mid Justiciar time to recover. She stood her ground. The frail and elegant build of the High Elf was trembling under the immense pressure of the crypt, but her posture was absolute. The pristine illusion of the perfect Saintess was dead. Her enchanted silk robes were heavy with black water and muck. Her silver white hair whipped violently in the unnatural wind. She had stopped filtering her soul.
She embraced her true Authority. Samsara.
