Rianor pushed himself off the stone wall.
The tremors from the explosions had subsided. The retreat horn from the Iron Empire's command tent still rang in his ears, but he pushed it aside for now. He turned toward the corridor leading to the throne room, took a deep breath, and walked.
His steps were a limping drag, but his eyes remained razor-sharp.
The obsidian corridor ahead pulsed softly with reddish-purple runes, syncing with his decelerating heartbeat. The sweltering heat from the magma river below still clung to the air, laced with the faint stench of sulfur. His black hair was a disheveled mess, matted flat with dried sweat.
His cracked glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, but he didn't bother adjusting them. His gray shirt was caked in volcanic dust and soot. His left arm hung completely limp, burdened by the dead Arcanotech Bracer, while the scabbed gash on his right arm throbbed sharply with every few steps.
