The moment the word left Percival's lips, blue flames erupted from Percival's hand, engulfing the sarcophagus in a silent, blue inferno.
Soon, however, the rest of the world around him was swallowed by the flames as well. The tomb, the light, the amateur carvings, all of it faded into a wash of blue.
A dark, grave blue.
Percival found himself standing in a concept of place, rather than a place itself.
Around him was a dull azure expanse that stretched into infinity. The ground beneath his boots was invisible, yet solid.
When he lifted his foot, it rippled like water at night.
Drifting through this emptiness were ribbons of light blue smoke, twisting and curling from the azure flames that burned in the far distance.
Then, from those distant flames, a figure approached.
The legend.
The Blade of Brackenbridge.
Mercius Seagrave.
He was a colossus. Taller even than Percival, with a bulky, husky build that spoke of his raw, unrefined power.
