The chamber lay in ruin. Once a stronghold of the Silver Fangs, its towering stone walls now lay fractured, the intricate carvings that once adorned them shattered like fragile glass. Smoke and dust swirled in the air, illuminated by the eerie glow of magical embers still crackling with residual energy. The scent of scorched stone and blood mingled, creating a pungent, suffocating haze that hung over the battlefield.
And at the center of the destruction stood Orion.
He was surrounded. A sea of armored knights and battle-hardened mages encircled him, their formation rigid, weapons drawn, and spells coiling at their fingertips, each radiating the readiness to strike at a moment's notice. They were a wall of steel and power, yet Orion did not waver. His gaze, unwavering and cold, remained locked on the man who should have been dead.
Raven Blizz.
A man who should not be standing.