These walls drank in the storm of spells launched at them like rain falling in the ocean.
Each impact—fire, ice, stone, and thunder—flared across runes carved into the ancient sandstone, glyphs glowing to life for brief moments before dimming again, their light flickering like something ancient awakened from slumber. The air shimmered under the strain of such power, as arcs of magic snapped like lightning across the sky.
A fresh wave of Runebound hurled themselves at the city, clawed hands scraping and sparking against the walls. Some transformed mid-leap—bones snapping, muscles stretching, fur or scales spilling from their skin as they activate their other forms.
Whatever the Humanitas Sangh branding process did to them exactly, it truly drove Runebound into a frenzy: eyes glazed, mouths frothing, only barely constrained by commands whispered from their Arcanist handlers.
Above, the defenders answered with stubborn grit.
