The winds in Zone 16 shrieked now.
Not as mere gusts, but as deafening roars—an orchestra of ruptured air and crumbling dimensions echoing the escalating battle. The ground, already a graveyard of fractured stone and scorched sigils, now trembled beneath the shockwaves of each exchange.
Aesmirius blurred forward in a burst of raw velocity, space warping around him like rippling silk. His body shimmered with violet luminance, every inch of Liam's vessel burning hotter than it ever should. He weaved through the sky, leaving afterimages stitched with collapsing time distortions. With a thunderous pulse of myst, he appeared at Sylvathar's flank, fingers already shaping a sigil mid-movement.
Sylvathar pivoted without looking.
