Some hours later.
The heavy doors of Alix's working chamber close behind him with a soft, final click. The scent of old paper and fresh ink drifts in the air, mingling with the muted thrum of mana that pulses through the obsidian walls. Shelves line the room—scrolls, reports, handbound ledgers—and at the center, beneath a suspended crystal lamp, rests a wide table of darkwood inlaid with runes.
Alix steps inside, rolling his shoulders once. The revival is complete.
He walks over to the table and draws out a worn, blackened ledger. His fingers trail across the surface, brushing away a thin layer of dust, and with a thought, the runes ignite softly—revealing updated listings of newly revived troops.
"One hundred and fifty thousand Bonepiercers," he says quietly, almost to himself. He doesn't sit, just stands there, arms crossed, scanning the names and designations that flicker into view.
His lips curl slightly—not into a smile, but something like it. Satisfaction.
