Sapper

In the marble halls of Miziyak where magic flows through every seam, the Sapper stands at threshold—cloak hooded, fingers humming with residue of wards. As a spellcaster begins to weave enchantment, the Sapper steps forward, palm raised, breath held. When spell’s light bursts, the Sapper draws arcane threads into nothingness—absorbing the weave, cancelling its echo before it fully gates flesh or fury.
  These are not brute warriors; they are subtle, surgical. In court, the Sapper might seem a polite figure, silent in the corners, unnoticed. On the battlefield, they are the unsung defence: the flaming arrow that falls mute, the curse that fizzles in mid-air, the shield-spell shattered before it can glow.