Askara gripped the hilt of his Katana tighter, the edge of his blade trembling with condensed crimson light. The mana around him thickened, vibrating with restrained violence.
"Then we make it simple," he said, voice low but cutting through the storm.
He stepped forward, boots crunching against the fractured ice, his mismatched eyes glowing in the ruinous snowlight. "I'll handle the cult. You guys keep that thing busy"
Kiara's voice cracked through the wind, sharp with disbelief. "You can't take eleven of them alone!"
Askara glanced over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth curving. "Who said I'd be alone?"
The air around him twisted, then bled. From the snow, shadows poured out like spilled ink, writhing into shape. Dozens, then hundreds, of spectral figures rose silently, their bodies formed from blood and mist. Their faces were obscured, yet their eyes blazed a uniform crimson, burning with loyalty and wrath.
The storm itself seemed to bow to their presence.
