Novel & Cerita Robe Of Enshroudment

While Bo has a shining white head free of even a single strand of hair and a short thin (mostly gray) facial hair and smells like golden spice. Gray is standing on the left side of a semicircle made up of him, Cordelia and Bo, with cordelia being in the middle, a few yards just ahead of us. Gray’s holding a long thick metal link chain in his hands, conversing with the two. Iselyn and I stop a few feet away, just close enough to alert them to our presence and hear the conversation.

The embroidery seemed to shimmer in the dappled sunlight, casting a subtle glow on the fabric. The coat, fitted to perfection, showcased Liam's broad shoulders and regal stature. A silver brooch, a family heirloom, adorned the lapel, securing a cloak that billowed gracefully as he moved. The cloak itself was a masterpiece, crafted from the finest materials and lined with a delicate pattern that echoed the flora of the winter garden.

Even his arms bore thin flexible guards, all which were about to be covered up with his robe. I picked up the black robe, its helm flowing down to the ground even as I fixed him into it. It was light, lighter than the armour. As I placed it over him, covered him up gently and stared right back at him, I felt a wave of relief flush through me. I sighed out deeply. He looked appropriate for a burial, like there was nothing else to it. Like underneath the soft layer of his robe didn't carry the weight of revenge, the weight of freedom, my freedom, his freedom. At this moment, I preferred him on his black robe, not what was underneath it.

The moonlight dressed the land in a gleaming white layer. Within the silent gloom of Nova in Veil's armoury, Roy checked the straps of his black coat, tucked his gloves into place and lifted the collapsable mask from its stand. Black steel edges melding into a sleek, curved surface with that single ornate stone hanging from its left side. He didn’t put it on yet. Only held it. Looking at it. It meant something to him. The teardrop of the crimson jewel. Kieran finished buckling the straps of his combat harness, sliding his sword into place along his spine.

The Ironmaw wolves had carved runes into the wooden platform — symbols of protection, of remembrance, of safe passage to the lands beyond. Ronan's body lay on the platform, still wrapped in his white shroud. The fabric had been arranged to reveal his face, peaceful in death, that faint smile still on his lips. Someone — Lira didn't know who — had placed a sprig of the new green growth on his chest.

The scent was sharp and strangely metallic. “It will cleanse your spirit and sharpen the bond,” Maribel said. Gal stepped inside. The water was warm at first, but then it tingled, then burned, then numbed her completely. She held her breath and sank to her shoulders, imagining Milo’s face. She emerged shaking, her skin flushed from the mixture of herbs and magic. Merek waited with a white ceremonial robe, woven from moon-thread and blessed many times over. “This garment will shield your soul from fragmentation during the transition,” she explained. “If destiny is kind.”

Strung upon a delicate, unbreakable silver chain, it carried a faint, comforting scent of dried lavender and ancient earth. "It is a protective seal," Rowan explained, his smooth fingers gently lifting the heavy medallion from the velvet. "In the old days, the women of the Shield wore these to safeguard their bodies and the lives they carried within them. It rejects the ambient pressure of dominant auras. It ensures that no shadow, no matter how ancient, can ever force its way into your space again."

The scent of incense and flowers filled the air, mingling with the perfume of the nobles and the sharp, clean smell of anticipation. Maddox stood at the altar, his back straight, his expression unreadable. He wore the traditional royal vestments of Emberclaw, deep crimson embroidered with gold thread, the sigil of his house stitched over his heart. A crown of silver and rubies rested on his brow, catching the candlelight and scattering it like drops of blood.

The oils sank into my skin, cold first, then burning, until it felt as though every vein was being sealed, every pore locked tight. It was tradition. Every Lord who entered the battle was supposed to be embalmed. The ritual blocked sorcery from latching onto the body, sealed away weak points, and made it impossible for anyone to twist a Lord’s flesh with curses or bloodcraft. In theory, embalming leveled the field—no enchantments, no tricks, no poisons carried in the blood. Only raw strength, only skill.

Every muscle in his broad frame was coiled, his posture subtly angled to shield her from the epicenter of the room. Kaelen did not flinch as they approached. He stood perfectly still before the pulsing broken planetary core, his midnight silver robes catching the erratic dark purple bioluminescence of the leaking energy. The fabric seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it, bleeding into the shadows of the machinery around him. In his hands, the dark counter cipher slate glowed with jagged violent violet runes that bled into the air like spilled ink.