The jungle's breath had stilled.
Not a leaf stirred, not a bird chirped. The wind itself seemed to withhold its sigh. Shadows gathered between the thick tree trunks as if afraid to move too loudly.
From the underbrush, they emerged—one after another, figures wrapped in plated steel and imperial blue, faces hidden behind helms marked with the Empire's sunburst crest. Their steps were light, trained, confident. Their eyes were sharp. Each of them moved like a blade—precise, unsympathetic, and honed to obey.
They were the chosen knights of the Empire. Silent agents of command. Loyal hounds of Elizabeth. The kind of men only summoned when a war was already written in blood.
One of them—narrow-eyed, ghost-pale, his armor too pristine for the jungle—squinted ahead.
He saw him.
Atlas.
"...We've been spotted."
The others tensed instantly, hands hovering over hilts and glyphs. A dozen spells held back on the edge of fingers.
