Frank stood before the formidable gates of the stronghold, his sword still in hand. An inexplicable feeling gripped him, a sense of unease that defied the silence and the swirling smoke rising from the ruined streets. Something primal had shifted in the air, a heavy weight pressing against his chest, a coldness unlinked to the night's chill.
Beside him, Lysandra froze, her grip tightening on the rods until her knuckles went white.
"Frank," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Something's horribly wrong."
He didn't respond, eyes fixed towards the Tribunal, where the sky had already begun to bleed with an ominous hue, heralding an approaching storm.
Vora sank against the vault wall, her legs giving way beneath her. Around her, Eidolon agents hurried to tend the wounded and secure the doors. The battle for the core had ended, yet she couldn't stop trembling.
