"I have no interest," he said flatly, "in being anyone's pawn."
That single statement sent a ripple through the robed figures. Whispers, soft and dissonant, echoed among them, as though they communed silently. They knew him. Perhaps they had glimpsed him in visions or illusions. Perhaps they had heard of his survival in the Ashen Expanse. One way or another, their reaction was immediate: a disturbance in the hush, the slightest shift in posture.
Then, in a heartbeat, one of them broke formation. A figure from the leader's left, presumably a fanatic or zealot, lunged forward, bridging the short distance between them with startling speed. His blade was unlike anything Draven had seen carried by normal soldiers—shimmering with unstable energy, as though half of it existed in another plane. Arcane sparks danced along its length, phasing in and out of sight.
