Damon stood in front of the others… all of them dressed in armor. These weren't ordinary armors—no, these were the ones the Beldam had once kept like decorations, proudly displayed in her lair, untouched by dust or decay. Oddly enough, unlike the other artifacts they had uncovered—most of which were cursed or rotten with dark magic—these were different.
These were pure. Untainted. Almost reverent in design.
Each armor was a set, complete with a weapon… save one.
That one… was called Pale Crown.
It came with nothing—no blade, no spear, no staff. Just the armor alone.
For the past few days, they'd contemplated, argued, and tested who would wear what. And after much trial, they decided. The armors at first looked dead—dull, lusterless, like tomb relics drained of soul. But the moment they were worn… they responded. Awakened. Shifting and morphing to mirror the magic attribute of their new bearer.
His eyes fell on Sylvia.
