The sky screamed.
When Galen and Sylvathar vanished, the heavens themselves recoiled from the force of their clash. Lightning cracked the sky in jagged webs, clouds burst apart like torn fabric, and thunder rumbled with the voice of war.
They reappeared midair—not as warriors, but as natural disasters.
Galen's flameblade met Sylvathar's crystalline claws with an eruption of fire and stone. Sparks the size of meteors burst from each impact, raining down like apocalyptic hail. Galen twisted his body with inhuman precision, pivoting midair with only the torque of his core and redirecting a claw swipe that would've sliced a mountain clean through. His blade arced like a comet, flames trailing like a tail, forcing Sylvathar to pull back—or lose his head.
But Sylvathar adapted.
The Green Calamity summoned a whip of stone and magma from the air itself, lashing out. It wrapped around Galen's arm, constricting like a serpent made of tectonic fury. Sylvathar yanked—
