He'd kept it on in the rare event a Seed spawned nearby, though that was unlikely. Seeds typically manifested in territories already swallowed by the Scourge, where Aether ran thick and reality had been softened enough for their arrival.
Still, unlikely did not mean impossible.
And Ixion had never liked betting his life on probability.
The armor was cumbersome, stiff around the joints, and poorly suited to the kind of movement he preferred, but it served a purpose. If some grotesque little miracle tore itself out of the soil beside him, he would rather not have Veritas' borrowed body gutted before he could react.
But now?
Now it was a hindrance.
Piece by piece, Ixion stripped the metal from himself, letting each plate fall carelessly into the dirt. The breastplate landed first, then the gauntlets, then the greaves. Each impact sounded dull and final in the quiet forest.
Wrath quietly watched him with a deepening scowl.
Above them, the sky continued to ripple.
