Inside the ancient Citadel, a terrifying battle was drawing close to a grim conclusion. The interior of the great hall was devastated, and although smoke had not reached here yet, the dark expanse was permeated by sweltering heat. The shattered floor was awash in blood.
The battle had not gone well for the Saints of the Sword Army. Most of them were already dead — only four remained, each struggling to stay alive.
Saint Roan was battered and bloodied, his white mane painted red. His lightning had been extinguished, and although his enchanted armor — a gift from his daughter to celebrate his Transcendence — had served him well, it was now a shredded mess of torn metal, a blow or two away from crumbling into a river of ethereal sparks.
