Cliff stepped forward cautiously, leaving his group behind. He didn't need to turn around to feel their eyes fixed on his back. Each step echoed lightly in his boots, absorbed by the soft earth and rough grass.
He didn't draw his weapon. Not yet.
He was the strongest among them, and he knew it. But it wasn't a strength you wielded without reason. If there was danger, he'd feel it first.
The figure didn't move.
It stood there, frozen like it had been sculpted into the air, as if it had always been there—planted in the stone, waiting for the world to finally turn to this exact moment. It wore a white coat that floated gently in the breeze, and as Cliff got closer, the details sharpened: golden embroidery running along the sleeves, ancient symbols stitched into the fabric with near-ritual precision.
And that sensation.
The mana.
