"Three nexus runes—north, east, west—keep the conveyor alive. Kill those, the heart-wood stops feeding the core. I'll work from above." A short gesture traced his chosen path: up the nearest column, across two beams, down a chain.
Two scouts nodded, lips thin. They were still pale from the tunnel shock, but their hands were steady. Draven's confidence lent them backbone.
Sylvanna's attention drifted to the cages ringing the altar—delicate filigree globes no larger than a man's torso, each holding a drifting soul-wisp. The wisps looked fragile, skin of moonlight wrapped around nothing, yet every pulse of the furnace yanked transparent tendrils from them like silk ripped off a cocoon. The glow in their chests dimmed with every tug. Her knuckles tightened on the bow grip.
