The stone beneath their boots shimmered with dormant magic, etched with runes so old they hummed with the weight of a thousand battles.
The teleportation portal loomed before them, a great disc of carved obsidian inlaid with shifting silver lines that pulsed in time with the breath of the realm itself.
Malvoria stood closest to it, her arms folded behind her back, her crimson cloak gently stirring in the morning breeze.
The anticipation in her chest was a taut, metallic thing—somewhere between battle readiness and the thrill of returning home to set it ablaze.
The others stood in a wide semicircle around the circle, all armored in their own way. Raveth in her dark-plated leathers, practical and worn.
Lara in her sleeveless vest and twin blades strapped to her back, chewing on a piece of dried fruit like it was the last snack she'd ever enjoy. Veylira gods above looked like she'd just stepped out of a royal opera.
Malvoria arched a brow.
