⟬ 31 bells, 57 minutes, 15 seconds remaining... ⟭
Tycondrius placed his hand on the thick bark.
The magic fortifying the walls had suddenly weakened-- their thrice-damned regeneration, mysteriously stagnant.
...but why? And by what means?
Tycon's paranoia suggested it was a trap-- one to lull him and his forces into a false sense of security.
Or was it an effect of their efforts? The Demon Insects had chewed through enough of the exterior to potentially disrupt its defensive Spell Formations...
"Orders, Boss?" Pale asked.
Tycon rolled his eyes. They were wasting time-- time he did not have in excess.
"Franz, touch the boy."
"With... all due respect, my liege, I'm not that kind of d--"
Tycon cut him off with a glare.
"If you're going to disobey my orders, Franz, I'll have my enchanted sash returned."
It was a death threat. The runed sash prevented the Ice Devil from literally melting into oblivion.
