The incense smoke in the Patriarch's office didn't drift; it hung in stagnant ribbons, crushed by the weight of the Prana radiating from the four figures standing before the hologram.
Alistair didn't just stand; he occupied the space like a monument. With a sharp exhale, he clenched his fist, and a dull, metallic hum echoed through the room. His skin took on a matte, grayish sheen as his Consolidation took hold, weaving Prana into his very cellular structure. He looked less like a man and more like a statue carved from a single block of tungsten. To him, Solon was a structural defect in the city that simply needed to be hammered out.
Beside him, Selena ran a thumb along the string of her recurve bow. She wasn't looking at Solon's face; she was staring at the empty air, already visualizing the heat signatures in the tunnels below. Her Guided Arrows didn't care for obstacles. Once she locked onto a soul's frequency, her projectiles would navigate the labyrinth of the sewers like starving hounds, turning corners and weaving through pipes until they found the softest part of the target's throat.
"Must we endure more briefing for a rat?" Thales hissed, his voice like grinding glass.
He snapped his fingers, and instantly, two jagged, ivory Prana Horns erupted from the obsidian floor with the violence of a triggered bear trap. They stopped inches from Alistair's boots. Thales thrived on the sudden, the vertical, the impaling. He didn't need to swing a sword; he turned the very ground beneath an enemy's feet into a forest of spears.
Yuna, the youngest, remained a silent shadow in the back. She placed her palm against the stone wall, and the building seemed to groan in response. While the others focused on the kill, she focused on the cage. Her Terrain Manipulation meant the city itself was her puppet. She could seal a hallway, liquefy a floor, or turn a simple exit into a dead end with a single pulse of her will.
"He's a commoner who stumbled upon a Codex," Alistair said, his voice echoing with the vibration of a tuning fork. "He calculates physics. We are the law that dictates it. Let's go down there, break his legs, and be back before the bells toll for dinner."
The four heirs turned in unison, their silk robes whispering against the stone. They weren't heading into the sewers for a war; they were going for a harvest. They had no idea that in the lightless depths, Solon's "physics" was being rewritten by an Angel into a weapon that would make their ancient bloodlines look like obsolete equations.