Lucavion stood near the outer edge of the scorched basin, arms loosely crossed, his estoc resting against the ground beside him like a blade long since grown bored of drawing blood. Wind scraped softly through the broken spires, carrying with it the scent of mana-scorched stone and distant ruin. The ground beneath his feet still bore the echoes of too many clashes—half of them his.
He was alone now.
Or rather—alone from them.
The previous group was gone. Every last one.
Not because they had fled.
But because they had tried.
