The sun had yet to fully rise when the guards threw open the cell door.
Morning air in the Iron Empire's capital bit cold, thick with the stench of factory smoke beneath a heavy gray sky hanging low over steel rooftops. Roland rose from his wooden bench. His white shirt was still grimy with dust and soot from the battle in the Dwarven realm, and the wound on his left shoulder—the jagged mark left by Ignis's claws—stung dully despite having begun to scab over. His dark hair remained a disheveled mess, left uncombed since the night before.
Across from him, Rianor pushed himself up. His gray shirt was filthy, his thin-framed glasses hair-fractured and slipping down the bridge of his nose. His left arm hung limply with its completely dead Bracer, while his right arm bore dried lacerations. His face was pale, but his eyes remained as sharp as ever.
