We Have to Return

The fire crackled in the clearing as dusk fell. What was once a chaotic battlefield had now quieted into a graveyard of scorched armor, shattered weapons, and still-burning underbrush. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the dense treetops, painting everything in shades of rust and crimson.

Inigo stood over the body of one of the fallen elites, crouching down to inspect the strange emblem Lyra had picked up earlier. It was small—no larger than a palm—but intricately carved. A black serpent coiled around a burning tower, its eye etched with a crimson gemstone. The symbol pulsed faintly, as if it still carried a residual charge of magic.

"This isn't just branding," Inigo muttered. "This is a seal."

Arienne stood beside him, her white robes now stained with dirt and ash. "The enchantments woven into it are beyond common warbinding. I sense layers of compulsion magic, blood sigils… even sacrificial binding. Someone fed lives into this."