Sylas' aura flared, his hands forming claws as he grabbed at the air before him. Space shook and time twisted as he yanked it down.
Runes fluttered into motes of light and dancing butterflies, the continuous cascade of them looking like both a relentless waterfall and a stream of moonlight.
It felt like he was pulling against the world itself, every creak and wrinkle in space sending out a violent ripple as far as the eye could see.
And then he swept down completely, stepping forward and through the blockage that was before him.
In his wake, little more than a river of blood was left behind.
Sylas almost stumbled forward, gasping for breath with every inhale. But his air came out even faster than he took it in as though he was hurriedly pushing the CO2 away in a desperate grasp for more oxygen.
Gales swept through the dark space, a pounding headache hammering at his skull continuously.
