The ringing of Bram's forge and the steady, blue-collar hum of the camp faded as Will led Mara toward the unmapped shores of the subterranean Leviathan lake.
The water here was completely still, glowing with a dim, lapis-blue luminescence that cast long, distorted shadows against the cavern walls. Will didn't draw a weapon. He didn't issue commands. He simply let the raw, golden gravity of his [Sovereign's Aura] bleed into the dark. It wasn't an attack, but the sheer density of his mana acted like an environmental suppressor, drowning out the ambient noise of the stronghold and isolating the two of them in a suffocating bubble of absolute authority.
For twenty years, Mara had trained to endure enhanced interrogation, sensory deprivation, and corporate torture. But walking in the complete silence of a Warlord's shadow chipped away at her conditioning faster than any blade. The psychological anticipation was agonizing.
