The runes beneath the citadel thrummed.
Goblins gathered in ranks—three dozen, then six, then nearly a hundred. Not chaotic, not snarling. Disciplined. Quiet. Hanz reforged their armour in the dungeon's forge: matte black iron layered over chain, each set marked with a single sigil pressed over the chest—
A tree made of fire.
Branches curled upward like tongues of flame. Roots twisted downward, clawing the black.
It wasn't a banner.
It was a warning.
Leonhardt stood at the centre of the circle as the mana surged upward. The air thickened. The wind died. The glyphs beneath their boots ignited in red, then white, then violet.
Dia flinched beside him, but the chain held.
"Don't look away," he said calmly.
The world bent.
And the light swallowed them.
They reappeared in silence.
No noise. No flash. Just presence.
