The royal palace of Valoria had already fallen into ruin.
The sounds of battle had faded into the distance, replaced by the groaning of damaged stone and the occasional crash of collapsing masonry. Dust drifted through the corridors. The air carried the bitter smell of smoke and blood.
The royal guards who had survived the initial assault were scattered, wounded, or desperately attempting to regroup. With the palace's defenses shattered and its ruler slain, Valoria had lost more than a fortress. It had lost the center of its authority.
Zarathor paid the destruction no mind.
He stood before the ancient seal, studying the enormous magic circle engraved into the chamber floor. Interlocking runes stretched across the stone, converging around a mana crystal at the formation's center. Its pale light pulsed steadily, sustaining the ancient structure even after centuries of decay.
The crystal remained intact.
That was what mattered.
