Dawn painted the Lionhart Estate in hues of gold and crimson, the morning light unable to soften the devastation wrought by the night's events. The once-immaculate corridors bore scars of combat—cracked stone where amber and crimson energies had collided, blood stains not yet cleaned, the lingering scent of ritual incense left behind by the Icarus cult.
Roman Lionhart stood at the entrance to the Frost Chamber, his legendary composure intact despite the rage simmering beneath. Ice crystals formed unconsciously around his feet, spreading across the floor in intricate patterns that reflected his inner turmoil. Behind him, Melo remained silent, his white mask betraying nothing of his thoughts.
